The Passing Bells by Phillip Rock Page A

waves that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. She was forty-five, seven years younger than her husband, and, except for a slight thickening around the hips and the beginnings of a double chin, had retained the golden good looks of her youth. That she was Alexandra’s mother there was no doubt. She was the mirror of her daughter’s middle age.
    Hanna listened to the stuttering roar of a car engine as the machine receded down the driveway toward the Abingdon road a mile away. That would be Lydia and Alexandra leaving for London, she reasoned correctly, refilling her coffee cup from a silver pot. She did not entirely approve of women driving cars, although more and more of them were doing so these days. There were advertisements in all the better magazines showing stylishly dressed young women seated happily behind the wheels of Vauxhalls, Benzes, Morrises, and other sporty makes. Alexandra had begged that she be given driving lessons, but the countess had refused to allow it. She was frightened enough by Charles having his own car. There were so many accidents. One read about them almost daily.
    She finished her coffee and set to work, pushing her sleeves back over plump white forearms. The top of the oval desk was nearly obscured by stacks of papers filled with her neat and almost microscopic handwriting. She had a formidable task almost completed—the schedule and guest lists for the many balls, fetes, entertainments, and extravaganzas planned for the balance of the summer, the “season” in London. The last two weeks in June and all of July would be spent at Stanmore House, the Greville mansion at number 57 Park Lane. The earl was not happy about it, of course, preferring to stay in the country. In previous years he had managed to avoid going up to London for the social whirl of those six weeks, but Alexandra had not been of age then and it hadn’t mattered to Hanna whether he came up for the full time or not. This year was different. She had insisted firmly that he attend every function, meet every guest, for his daughter’s future lay somewhere among the papers before her.
    Somewhere. She sorted through the papers slowly, reading each name that she had written down, the guest list for each and every gathering. The list of names was long: two hundred for the ball on Friday, the nineteenth of June; three hundred and fifty for the gala on July Fourth—Independence Day . . . red, white, and blue bunting everywhere . . . the American ambassador as the honored guest. List after list: thirty for dinner on July 12; twenty-five for a picnic at Henley; forty seats reserved at the Drury Lane Theatre to see Chaliapin in Ivan the Terrible. On and on. Everyone who was anyone had found his or her way onto Hanna’s lists and was grateful to be there. Stanmore House had always been the glittering focal point of the entire London season. It was a clever trap, for sprinkled liberally among the names of Lord and Lady this, and the Viscount and Viscountess that, were the names of a score of young men, highly eligible bachelors all, and one of those names—and, oh, how she wished she could point to it—would soon be Alexandra’s betrothed.
    â€œWho?” she wondered, whispering the word, her finger moving slowly down list after list as though reading Braille. “Albert Dawson Giles, Esquire . . . The Right Honorable Percy Holmes . . . Mr. Paget Lockwood . . . Thomas Duff-Wilson.” She paused at that name. A barrister . . . Inner Temple. Twenty-five years of age. Wealthy from inherited money . . . a fine sportsman—Anthony would be pleased at that—a nephew of Lady Adelaide Cooper, one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting, and certain to be knighted in a year or two. The man’s name fairly leaped at her. Yes, it stood out above all others, and she sorted through the lists to make doubly certain that he had been included on