They followed the flow of partygoers to the left of the staircase.
‘There are supposed to be eight hundred guests here tonight,’ whispered Clarissa. ‘Can you imagine knowing that many people?’
Georgia thought there must have been two hundred in the ballroom alone, all standing in groups, talking and laughing, as a chamber orchestra played pretty music from a stage at one end. They walked the length of the room, nodding and waving to family friends and acquaintances from the Season, then out through tall French windows into the grounds, where the wide ornamental gardens were full of people. It was like Hyde Park on a warm summer evening: groups strolling along the paths, others standing next to the large white marquees or listening to the jazz band set up on a stage next to the lake at the rear, polite laughter and conversation filling the fragrant air.
‘This has to be the party of the year,’ said Sybil, looking over at Georgia appreciatively. Well done, she might as well have added, you’ve finally got us into high society. Although within the Hamilton family Aunt Sybil was considered top drawer – and an inheritance had paid for their house in Pimlico – she was far from the sort of status and wealth that the Carlyle family possessed. Far from it.
‘Do you mind if I go and speak to my friends over there?’ said Georgia.
‘Not at all, darling,’ said Estella. ‘You girls must mingle. Go and have a wonderful time.’
Georgia watched as Clarissa joined a group of older girls, who immediately began giggling. She moved in the opposite direction. It had been a tiny white lie to her mother: she had seen a group of fellow debs, but she had no intention of talking to them. If she had to discuss how dreamy James Kirkpatrick looked in white tie one more time, she thought she might scream. Besides, the Season was drawing to a close. A few Highland balls in Scotland and Ireland for the more intrepid, but the coveted Deb of the Year award had been announced – a Home Counties beauty named Sally Croker Poole had nabbed the title – which meant that Christopher’s party would be the last big social event for those lucky enough to swing an invitation.
Georgia walked back inside the house, keeping to the edge of the ballroom and skirting around any groups of debs she spotted. Her plan – such as it was – was to avoid contact with anyone while she tried to track down the only person she wanted to see at this party: Edward.
Two months after their first kiss, and even the very thought of him made her shiver with excitement. They had had a wonderful summer together; although Edward had started working at the bank and she was still doing shifts at the Swiss Chalet, they had spent every possible moment in each other’s company. There had been nights out at Soho jazz clubs, picnics in the park, and drives to the coast, where they would park the Aston Martin and take long walks along the cliff paths, kissing and holding hands, sharing their secrets and dreams. Sometimes she would lie in bed at night and worry that it would all come crashing down around her ears, that Edward Carlyle would one day wake up and realise that she was actually nothing special, and when he had taken her out for lunch one day and said he had something to discuss, she had wondered if the axe was about to fall. Instead he had invited her and her family to Christopher’s twenty-first.
She looked around the party, wondering where he was, then realised that, this being a formal party, the elder son would be a social focus. She imagined him having to nod and look interested as his many relatives told him at length how things had been better before the war.
‘Georgia!’
She turned, thinking she had been ambushed by a debutante but she was confronted by Christopher’s cheerful face. He was wearing full white tie and a pink face, which suggested he was suffering underneath that stiff collar.
‘Happy birthday,’ grinned Georgia. ‘I’m surprised to see you unaccompanied.’
‘Rare moment,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘Mummy has been forcing a parade of dull girls in front of me all night. Managed to slip away for a quick nip.’ He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a silver flask. ‘Fancy a belt?’
Georgia shook her head.
‘No thank you. It’s hard enough keeping tabs on my mother when completely sober.’
‘Know what you mean,’ nodded Christopher. ‘I have to go the other way – I can’t get through it otherwise. You know I’d much rather celebrate my twenty-first with a night on the town with the fellows from the bank. At least they don’t expect you to waltz with some distant cousin with a face like rice pudding.’
Georgia giggled.
‘There must be a few nice girls here?’
Christopher raised his eyebrows.
‘Don’t you start . . .’
Just as she was turning away, Georgia felt someone grab her hand. She snapped it away, then turned to face her assailant.
‘It’s you!’
‘Who did you think it would be?’ said a grinning Edward.
‘That randy butler everyone keeps talking about.’
‘I’d better whisk you away then. I don’t want your head to be turned.’
‘Shouldn’t you be socialising?’
‘I’ve done my bit,’ he said, grabbing her hand again and leading her away from the party, first down a corridor, then into another passageway and up a flight of stairs.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she whispered, laughing despite herself.
‘You’ll see,’ he said, glancing back as he opened a door on to a landing. ‘Only a few more steps. Keep up!’