Happy Birthday, Opal!
(May 1911)
London was exceptionally warm on my ninth birthday. So much so that Mrs. Roche and Mr. Treaux elected to have the celebrations out of doors. The lawns of the private shared gardens behind our home on Eaton Square were well-dressed in bright, freshly-starched patchwork quilts, and tables and chairs were assembled from little-used drawing rooms along the path. I watched with immense excitement from the nursery windows as the staff moved like ants, gradually ladening the tabletops with cakes and tarts and great crystal pitchers of French lemonade.
The guests were to arrive before I did. Mother appeared at the appropriate time, swirling down the stone steps in a cream-colored tea dress. Miss du Vall — “Leonie,” we called her — trailed in Mother’s wake with garden scissors. They approached an azalea bush and spent several moments in crucial discourse over which was the superior bloom. Once arrived at a decision, Mother’s ladies maid gave a swift cut to the branch and the pair were once again busily buried in arranging flowers about Mother’s person. People began being let in. Most of them were Pappa’s associates, other Ambassadors like him; I saw Sir Thomas V. Strong (the Lord Mayor) stroll in with his wife Lillie. I liked them because they were always particularly kind to me. They had no children of their own, and Sir Thomas never liked to join the other gentlemen for cigars and brandies at dinners. Instead he’d join Lillie and the other ladies in a parlor or sitting room for coffee. This is where I was usually brought to greet the guests, practice my manners, and bid Mother goodnight. Sir Thomas always had some sweet meat to sneak into my hand. He reminded me of Pappa - a very serious government man, but with a somewhat softer, secret disposition.
Naturally, Pappa strode out across the grass next, hands at his breast, fingers curled around the hems of his suit jacket. This is where they lived, giving him a most constant air of authority and etiquette. I simply adored him in the way little girls do their fathers. And I wanted to give people just such an impression myself. In fact my only impertinence came from occasions in which I believed matters of my toilette did not meet with societal expectation, and to this end my poor nurse suffered greatly.
Vivienne Throckmorton was one of the few English individuals among our staff, and even then her father was French. She was always gentle and fair, and at times her good nature could be taken advantage of by me. Of all the household, I truly only feared Mrs Roche. She ran our residences like ships and it was due to her everything ran smoothly at all times. So of course, to maintain this, she ruled with an iron fist and wasn’t to be crossed. I didn’t know it at the time, but she had an immense weak-point in her armour specifically for me.
Outwardly I was treated the same as my older brother Ambrose, but she secretly set the best and freshest bouquets of flowers in my quarters, saw to it that my nursery meals weren’t quite so dull, and kept my wardrobe as a priority nearly equal to my mother’s. She saw to it I received the latest children’s magazines and novelty candies popular with the Americans. The only inkling of this softness I ever witnessed was that she sometimes gave me a wide smile I never saw her impart on anyone else. But it was always and immediately followed by quite a lengthy laundry list of information in regards to family schedules or expectations. Just now, Mrs. Roche was sternly surveying the lawn, pointing kitchen staff here and there with treats on silver trays.
Finally, I saw some of my peers arriving; other wealthy little girls who spent a blurry spring in the dark upper floors of London townhouses, just out of reach of the excitement which came from the start of a new societal season, but quite near enough to feel its furore. It was an especially exciting time for my brother Ambrose, who had just turned 21. 1911’s debutantes were for him—among the wealthiest and most titled and stationed of the young men of his generation, Miss Throckmorton said he’d be “beating back the women.”
But the first of May was about me and my cohort. Children’s parties were the place we thrived. I watched with renewed joy as my best friend, Flora LeFebvre, hurried out upon the lawn, little sister in tow. The daughter of a British Parliament member (and with French heritage) she and I were similarly whisked across the Continent summer and winter, seeing a lot of each other. They weren’t then the fashion, but I thought her blonde curls suited her quite well, somewhat envying them what with my own near-black locks. Apparently my “look” was something which brought my parents praise; I looked just as sullen and pale complexioned as any true Victorians wished of their children and grandchildren, though Ambrose always thought it better to cook himself “brown and lively,” as he put it, when we went to the seashore. He was perhaps ahead of his time, a little.
“I must go down now, Flora is here,” I finally informed Miss Throckmorton, who was still fidgeting with my dress. “Flora may wait a moment more,” she said, turning me about in carousel fashion to ascertain any small detail out of place. My patience returned – I liked to look perfectly pretty, and Vivi always saw to that. I was wearing a lovely new white muslin laced frock for my birthday; a dark blue blouse annd petticoats underneath gave the ensemble an appealing pastel quality. My button-up boots were shined black as soot, and my hair was in delicate little ringlets.
“All I need is my hat,” I said decisively, nodding to the pale straw boater resting on a nearby chair. The sun was high and I did not wish to become “brown and lively” – it simply didn’t seem ladylike. ***
The applause when I managed to blow out each candle in one go pleased me greatly, and I felt myself beaming shyly at the jolly crowd. The pretty vanilla almond layer cake with the pink sugar roses was generously distributed, not least of which to me.
“Opal,” Flora laughed, “that piece of cake is quite as big as you! I shall help you!”
“You won’t!” I withdrew from her greedy advances. But it was all in good fun – our bond was stronger than our sweet tooths.
We walked gingerly with the china plates to a quiet spot on the quilts where her nanny fed cake to her little sister, Violet, and two of our other friends sat waving. How innocent our complicated little world was! None of us had ever had a true care or worry, but we didn’t know it. Everything felt still quite real to us then. Now our trifles all seem a fairy tale. I didn’t know I lived a fairy tale. I had of course heard of bad things. They just usually happened to grown men who – in heroic duty – offered themselves up to one noble campaign or other in some far off, savage land.
And I’d even read stories of children whose lot in life had been misfortune. Oliver Twist had known hunger and labour, after all. But those sorts of things certainly didn’t really happen often, and not to girls. Mine was the life of aristocracy and youth such that if I’d never seen a thing, it simply truly couldn’t exist. Certainly, a state-of-the-art ocean liner going to the foul depths of the sea, heavy with society’s finest people, wouldn’t have ever occurred to me in even my wildest imaginings. *****
As the party waned, Papa and Mother recruited Flora and myself for a round of croquet. I felt very grown up in this endeavour, especially because Mother’s game was incredibly sharp. With a ferocious crack of the mallet the ball flew, always exactly where she meant it to. It was a rousing game. Papa laughed very heartily when his ball rolled quite far away, tapping against theboot of a bemused Monsieur de la Fontaine, my French tutor, who stood in audience, interjecting occasionally with instructions for Flora and I. Every event was an opportunity for a French lesson to him.
Naturally, we didn’t win, but that didn’t prevent Ambrose from presenting me a giant birthday bouquet of white roses tied together with a blue silk sash.
I adored Ambrose and he patronised me amply. Despite our significant age gap we felt the sibling ties strongly. When able, Ambrose stole away to join me on walks or rides into town. He no longer dined in the nursery but often made his way there afterwards, carrying the night-time tea tray himself and asking for a game of checkers. Soon, he said, I’d be ready to learn chess, which he and Pappa always played. I’m not sure how our family was so close; it rather defied the norms of our day that we spent so much time altogether. But it was important to Mother and Pappa. My grandparents had seemingly been often at arms length with their own children, to everyone’s detriment. Pappa’s parents were no longer with us and we saw little of Mother’s. They preferred the quiet country life of their seat in the Loire Valley. Once croquet was concluded, the mountain of gifts was put before me. From Pappa I received a special wooden doll’s house, which folded nicely in upon itself. The intention was to have something which could travel with us, as I loved my dolls. It was a massive structure, to be capable of accommodating my rather large Jumeaux dolls, but Pappa assured us the folding mechanism allowed it to become trunk sized and outwardly sturdy. Ambrose got me a little electric boat which could really sail – I was excited to take this to the shore at Deauville this summer holiday. And from Mother I got a great many ladylike things ~ a few collar brooches with various gemstones inlaid and more pearls for my necklace. A dainty hat with lots of lace I’d become enamoured with on a recent outing to Harrod's. Flora presented me with a new dress for Yvette, my favourite doll, which she'd handsewn herself. From other family friends and the staff came very pretty editions of books, flowers and sweets. I was well and duly spoiled, and the afternoon ended in the strewn remnants of confections and ribbons and rose petals across the quilts and lawn.
That night, as Miss Throckmorton finished weaving plaits into my hair for slumber, she reminded me I'd as yet received naught from her. She rose from the bedside and rolled a little wooden stand into the room, atop which sat a contraption I thought not unlike a kinematograph. Miss Throckmorton switched out the lights and fiddled with the little machine a moment. It whirred to life, streaming a great beam of light across the room to dance upon the opposite wall.
"Well, this won't do!" She tutted, and crossed the room to retrieve the painting illuminated there. She took it from its hinges and moved it away, leaving the wall barren. "There now," Returning to the machine she fiddled more, and suddenly a little lane of rabbits appeared upon the wall. They hopped and pranced in great likeness to the real thing.
"Oh...! Miss Vivvi! I love it..." I managed to murmur, awestruck. Falling asleep as a nine year old for the first time, my mind was joyous. Friends, family, and rabbits, too, swirled in my mind's eye, with sweets and croquet and charming little flower bouquets. *******