Elements of Chance - Barbara Wilkins

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      One day, they were out driving and the big Daimler turned into the section of London called the City, where every other pedestrian on the street was a businessman in a bowler, striped trousers, or a dark suit. “This is the financial hub of London,” Lady Anne proclaimed. “And look, my dear. There’s Penn International.”

      Valerie turned her attention to a glass prism soaring into the sky. She stared up at the name of the corporation that had made her trip to London possible.

      At seven o’clock that night, Lady Anne sent Janet up to help Valerie fix her hair for the dinner party she was giving to introduce her to some of her friends.

      “I’ve just finished putting the place cards on the table,” Janet said, as she stood pulling Valerie’s hair into a ballerina’s knot. “You’re right in the middle of the table, miss. You’ve got a Mr. Ronald Fox on one side. He’s escorting his mother, and I think the family is in shipbuilding.” She gazed critically at Valerie’s reflection in the gilt-edged mirror, and reached into the little crystal jar of hairpins that sat on the dressing table. “And on the other side, you have a Mr. Harold Carrington. I don’t know who he is.” Looking into the mirror again, she said, “There. What do you think, miss?”

      Valerie looked at herself in the mirror and saw Cini’s face. The shiny pale hair, the cheekbones, the narrow nose, the mouth surprisingly full with even a hint of sensuality. The wide-set hazel eyes, hinting at green, with their yellow flecks. Only the expression on her face, in her eyes, was different.

      “It’s perfect, Janet,” she said.

      “I’m glad you’re pleased, miss,” Janet said. “I’ve helped my ladies with their hair for, well, it’s going on four decades now.” She looked through the door of the dressing room to the bedroom where Valerie’s dress was carefully laid across the bed. It was beige crepe, with antique beige lace at the throat and the cuffs of its long sleeves. New shoes, also beige, with a two-inch heel, were on the soft carpet. “You might want to start thinking about getting out of that robe, miss. I think a little pink lipstick might cheer you up a bit. I’d rub a bit of it into my cheeks, too.”

      “I’ll be down right at seven-thirty,” Valerie said.

      Standing shyly in the entrance to the drawing room, Valerie gasped. There were flowers everywhere, and the fire in the fireplace seemed almost to be dancing. The lights from the lamps, the crystal sconces on the wall, the chandelier overhead set the room aglow. The evening was alive with the hum of conversation and an occasional throaty laugh from the men in dinner jackets, the women in evening gowns. And there was Lady Anne, her hair swept up, diamonds glittering at her ears and on one gesticulating wrist. She wore a low-cut black gown with puffy sleeves that just covered her shoulders. How pretty Lady Anne looked, thought Valerie admiringly.

      “Over here, dear,” Lady Anne called, her smile so reassuring, Valerie thought gratefully, as she moved stiffly across the room. Lady Anne took her hand as she began her introductions.

      Somehow, Valerie managed a strangled, “How do you do?” for each of them. In their gorgeous gowns and jewelry, the titled women were intimidating, and the men, emanating power and money, were overwhelming.

      I’ll never get the hang of this, Valerie thought, although she had to admit that it was worth almost anything to be sitting at such a pretty table. The china and silver were gorgeous, and there were low bowls filled with roses from the garden. The flickering candles made all of the women look beautiful and the men not quite so scary.

      After the sumptuous meal of roasted veal loin medallions with wild rice risotto, dessert was a chocolate mousse pie with caramel sauce. Every course was served with a different wine or champagne.

      The gentlemen stayed at the table to smoke their cigars and drink their port and, while the ladies retreated with Lady Anne to her suite upstairs, Valerie hurried up the stairs to her own room to splash some water on her face and make sure she looked all right.

      The guests were all sitting on chairs in a semicircle near the piano in the library when Valerie appeared in the doorway. She took a deep breath and forced herself to walk slowly across the room to the piano.

      The expectation in the room was palpable. Her hands shook a bit as she raced through the scales a couple of times, warming up.

      Valerie started, as she always did, with a Scarlatti sonata. She was aware of her audience relaxing, of legs being crossed and uncrossed, of chairs being slightly moved. She decided to dazzle them with Beethoven’s Appassionata, the piece that had won her the Young Musicians Foundation award. Everything in the room faded from her consciousness, and there were just the two of them—Ludwig van Beethoven, who had something to say, and Valerie Hemion, who was trying not to get in his way as she said it for him. With her mind, her body, she lost herself in his music.

      When Valerie finished playing, the room was still for a moment and the applause, when it came, loud and ringing with cries of, “Bravo.”

      “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Lady Anne, her voice filled with pride. “My niece, Valerie Hemion.”

      Late the next afternoon, after she and Lady Anne had finished with their tea in the drawing room, Valerie sat at her little rosewood desk and thought about her parents—well, Al and Vicki—and all the money they had spent to get her ready for the year in London. It was funny how she thought about them now. All the time she was growing up, there had been a feeling of not belonging, of being an outsider. Now, when she had found out that it was all true, that she was an outsider, she suddenly felt closer to Al and Vicki than she ever had before. In fact, she consciously felt that they were her real parents after all. They had raised her. They had sacrificed for her and her music. That was what parents did. And they would have adopted her, too, if they had ever been able to find Cini. Cini. Oh, she thought of Cini all right. Whenever she wanted to, Valerie could conjure up Cini’s face in her mind. That beautiful, fragile face with the wonderful bones, the wide-set eyes with their long, curly lashes just like Valerie’s. Valerie was secretly pleased that she had a good chance of growing up to be as beautiful as Cini. Seeing those pictures was like a preview of coming attractions.

      “Dear Mom and Dad,” she wrote on a postcard depicting Buckingham Palace. “Here I am in London. Lady Anne is really nice. She has a beautiful house, and a limousine. I love London.” It was true, Valerie realized, as she signed the postcard with her love. “P.S.,” she added. “I miss you both, and Muffin, too. I’m going to be a great artist, and I’ll make you proud of me.”

      Valerie woke to the buzz of her alarm clock on the morning she was to start her classes, and even before she pushed back the covers she realized she had finally gotten her first period.

      Janet was already tapping on the door with her breakfast as Valerie made a dash for the bathroom.

      “Come in,” she called, closing the bathroom door behind her. Well, Vicki would be glad to hear she had finally started to menstruate, Valerie thought, swabbing at the insides of her thighs with a wet washcloth. Suddenly, an image of Cini flashed through her mind as she looked at her naked body in the mirror. Her breasts were certainly larger, with their pale pink nipples. Her stomach seemed rounded, even womanly. Her pubic hair was pale gold, almost white, like the hair on her head.

      The blue box of tampons she had brought with her all the way from Los Angeles was in the bathroom drawer. By the time Valerie was dressed, Janet had already changed the sheets and made her bed.

      On the little table in her blue and white bedroom, with a pale London sun filtering through the curtains, was a sterling silver tray with a tea service, a linen napkin in its napkin ring, silver utensils. Her toast was kept warm with a silver cover. There were miniature urns of jam and butter.

      Life

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