Now I was twenty-one. I had no chaperon and I was dying to see what naughty young men had to offer. From what I had heard, I was somewhat confused about sex. It sounded rather horrid, and yet Belinda obviously enjoyed it—and my mother had done it with oodles of men on at least five different continents. It was, as Belinda had said, about time I found out what I had been missing.

Chapter 5

Rannoch House
Saturday, April 23, 1932

I woke the next morning determined to take Belinda up on her other suggestion—the one for gainful employment. Armed with Belinda’s glowing recommendation, I sat facing the head of personnel at Harrods. He was eyeing me suspiciously and waved the letter in my direction. “If you had indeed proved so satisfactory, why did you leave this position?”

“The Honorable Belinda Warburton-Stoke is going through a difficult period, as one does when setting up a new business, and had to give up charity events for the time being.”

“I see.” He examined me critically, as several other people had done in the past twenty-four hours. “You’re well enough spoken and you’ve been well educated, that is obvious. You say your name is Florence Kincaid? Well, Miss Kincaid, don’t you have family connections? I’m wondering why you would want a job like this. Not just for fun, I hope, when so many poor souls are on the brink of starvation.”

“Oh, indeed not, sir. You see, my father died some years ago. My brother has inherited the property and his new wife doesn’t want to have me there any longer. I’m as much in need of a job as anyone else.”

“I see.” He frowned at me. “Kincaid. That wouldn’t be the Worcester Kincaids, would it?”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

We stared at each other for a while, then my impatience got the better of me. “If you have no position vacant, please inform me immediately, so that I can take my skills to Selfridges.”

“To Selfridges?” He looked horrified. “My dear young lady, you need no skills at Selfridges. I’ll take you on trial. Miss Fairweather could use some help on the cosmetics counter. Follow me.”

And so I was handed a smock in an unflattering salmony pink that made me, with my Celtic reddish blond hair and freckles, look like a large cooked prawn, and installed in cosmetics, under the disapproving glare of Miss Fairweather—who eyed me with a more superior stare than I had ever seen coming from one of my austere relatives.

“No experience at all? She’s had no retail experience? I don’t know how I’m ever supposed to find the time to train her.” She sighed. She spoke with the kind of ultraposh upper-class accent developed by those of humble birth who want to conceal this fact.

“I’m a quick learner,” I said.

She sniffed this time. Frankly I thought she was a poor choice to put in charge of cosmetics, as no amount of cream, powder, or rouge would make that face look either soft, appealing, or glamorous. It would be like powdering granite.