Starring Adele Astaire, page 1
Dedication
For every artist who dared to dream, and every woman who dared to buck the status quo. You are our past, our present, and our future.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Part One: Hoofing It to Fame Chapter One: Adele
Chapter Two: Violet
Chapter Three: Adele
Chapter Four: Violet
Chapter Five: Adele
Chapter Six: Violet
Chapter Seven: Adele
Part Two: Shall We Tango or Jazz? Chapter Eight: Adele
Chapter Nine: Violet
Chapter Ten: Adele
Chapter Eleven: Violet
Chapter Twelve: Adele
Chapter Thirteen: Adele
Chapter Fourteen: Violet
Chapter Fifteen: Adele
Chapter Sixteen: Adele
Part Three Chapter Seventeen: Adele
Chapter Eighteen: Violet
Chapter Nineteen: Adele
Part Four: Astairical Chapter Twenty: Adele
Chapter Twenty-One: Violet
Chapter Twenty-Two: Adele
Chapter Twenty-Three: Violet
Chapter Twenty-Four: Adele
Chapter Twenty-Five: Adele
Epilogue: The Astaire Way to Paradise
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise for Starring Adele Astaire
Also by Eliza Knight
Copyright
About the Publisher
Part One
Hoofing It to Fame
“Heaven doesn’t send every generation an Adele Astaire. . . . She’s one of God’s few women who can be both funny and bewitching . . .”
—Ashton Stevens, Chicago Herald-Examiner
Chapter One
Adele
The Limelight
London’s West End is about to be taken over by American brother-and-sister duo Fred and Adele Astaire. While our friends across the pond seem captivated by the performers, who reportedly enchant their audiences the way a snake charmer hypnotizes his cobra, what our more civilized spectators will think remains to be seen . . .
March 1923
New York City
The colossal steamship Aquitania loomed at the pier, its four great red-and-black stacks puffing clouds of grayish-white smoke. My breath mirrored those hazy swirls, and I tucked my fur stole around my neck. The ocean liner was massive, its many decks lined with hundreds of windows and portholes. A floating skyscraper, if there were such a thing.
I wondered, as I stared at the streamlined floating tank—all the layers on top of one another and each stratum representing something different—where did I, mentally, fit in? With the glitz and glam of first class, the hopes and dreams of the passengers in second, or the raw determination of those lost in third? The control and precision of the captain’s deck or the chaos of the laborers shoveling coal deep in the bowels? All stacked neatly and looking cohesive from the outside. Perhaps I belonged on the promenade, hurrying around the perimeter until called to enter one of the levels. From my personal attempts to balance ambition with insecurity, glamour with grit, I knew that nothing was ever as perfectly put together as it seemed.
I caught my brother, Freddie, watching me curiously, his hazel eyes a lighter shade than my dark brown. I was taller than he when we were kids, but somehow he’d soared past me, leaving me at a few inches over five feet. My little brother had become my big brother. Our mother, Ann, held his arm, the bow on the side of her green cloche hat fluttering in the wind, a slight smile on her still-young face. Which layer of the ship were they—control, chaos, hope, determination?
“Would you look at that, Delly?” Freddie used my nickname, a play on Adele, then glanced back at the steamship in awe. “Our whole future before us.”
Our whole future—success or failure.
Ever since we were kids, we’d boarded trains, traversing America on the vaudeville circuit, and then spent the past six years on Broadway. Neither one of us had ever set foot on a ship. This trip represented a major shift in our show-business careers—a debut on the London stage. A chance to show the world that we were rising stars. After nearly two decades of dancing, singing, and acting together, we were at last bursting onto a scene that we’d been clamoring for, with all the glamour and influence it brought.
Hopes and dreams.
But I couldn’t help asking myself—did I want it? I’d been working since I was eight years old. The sacrifices I’d made to get here—friendship, romance, rest from my constant exhaustion, a life—how much longer was I willing to put up with days that consisted only of rehearse-perform-sleep, on constant repeat? I didn’t ask for this . . .
“Everyone keeps calling it the ‘Ship Beautiful,’ but I don’t see it,” I teased. “It’s a massive hunk of black-and-white metal.”
I was nervous as hell about trudging up that gangway and onto a miraculously floating liner that looked heavy enough to sink. I tucked a loose dark tendril beneath my camel cloche hat and prayed our ship didn’t run into an iceberg like the Titanic had on its maiden voyage eleven years ago. The Aquitania had been built to emulate the Titanic in luxury and comfort, but at least this vessel was outfitted with enough lifeboats, should we run into similar trouble.
We weren’t the first in our family to set sail. Four years before I was born, Pop—now stuck back in Omaha—had made the trip from Austria to Ellis Island, leaving his parents and siblings behind. If he could survive a transatlantic voyage, then I supposed we could, too. After all, we were living his dream a generation later. Making it big onstage, something he’d wanted to do himself.
Determination. Lost.
I think my fear of drowning was now more figurative than literal.
For the first eight years of my life, I was Adele Austerlitz of Omaha. Daughter of Fritz, an immigrant and a Catholic convert of Jewish Austrian descent, and Johanna, a first-generation American Prussian. I was sister to Freddie from the time I was three. Then, suddenly, I was Adele Astaire from New York City. A name that was less Austrian, less controversial. A name for a star.
I’d been Adele Astaire for so long, I didn’t even know who Adele Austerlitz was anymore, or whom she might have become.
Sometimes I wanted to know. The rest of the time, I brushed it off. After all, the show must go on.
I set aside my nerves, letting my fear be overtaken by excitement about what this trip represented—a grander future. Our parents had sacrificed so much for us, practically everything; maybe even who they were. That reminder brought with it so many feelings: fear of failure; an oppressive sense of obligation. Success was the only option.
“There you are.” Alex Aarons, our impresario, approached, a half-smoked cigar between his teeth. His wife was beside him, stylish in her fur-trimmed overcoat. Aarons had arranged for the show and our passage with a producer in London. “This is going to be a hoot.”
With our luggage taken by the porters, the five of us clambered up the gangway. Once on deck, I didn’t want to go inside. Not yet. I looked back at the pier. At New York City. The way my father had seen it when he first arrived. The view of the city of dreams. How I used to think New York embodied mine. Now I wasn’t so sure.
I leaned my elbows against the rail, waiting for the ship to move, the coolness of the metal bar penetrating my coat.
“What are you doing?” Freddie paused beside me.
“Let’s give them a goodbye that makes them eager to have us back,” I said. The fame we’d garnered in the past few years of our acting circuit made us easily recognizable in a crowd. Part of me feared that leaving to tackle the world at the height of our success would mean starting over when we returned—working even harder. It had happened before, and I didn’t think I had it in me to even try.
“All right.” Freddie shrugged as if it were nothing.
I smiled, glad he was being a good sport rather than the killjoy he sometimes could be. We’d tried to stay inconspicuous dockside, not drawing the attention of the reporters, but, with a barrier between us and them, I grabbed Freddie’s hand and we waved to the crowd. The cries of excitement in response seemed to melt any last hesitation on Freddie’s part. He doffed his cap, waving it. The cold wind off the bay blew the ends of my hair around my face, threatening to dislodge the hairpins from my hat.
Cries of goodbye rose from the crowd on the pier—all come to bid farewell to their loved ones. Maybe, just maybe, a few had come in hopes of seeing us off, too.
“Delly, let’s go inside. You’re going to catch your death,” Mom chided.
And where would you and Freddie be then?
When, on the cusp of womanhood, our act had been pulled from vaudeville for two years until Freddie could catch up—I realized that I was the center of everything. Or at least they wanted me to be. But why should Freddie’s career depend on me? Perhaps without me he would soar. It was hard for him to shine standing in my shadow.
“Soon, but not yet.” I blew the loose hair from my face and shivered, waving even more vigorously to those gathered below until the chill persuaded me to call an end to my antics. After all, Mom was right, and I couldn’t imagine being ill the rest of the trip. If I thought her domineering now, it would be ten times worse if I was confined to bed. I lowered my hand.
As I was about to turn from the railing, my attention was caught by a man on the pier, scribbling away in a notebook and taking photogra
“Don’t do that, Delly,” Freddie’s voice rumbled, a near growl. “That man needs no more encouragement.” He sure did hate Mr. Nathan, and anyone taking my attention away from our goal—stardom.
I cocked my shoulder and let out an impish laugh. “You’re just mad because he said he only liked to watch dancers who didn’t wear pants.”
Freddie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and likely he’d be happier if you weren’t wearing a skirt, either.”
I pretended to be shocked and outraged, poking Freddie in the chest, but the truth was my brother made me laugh harder than anyone else could.
“You’re right. I’m sure that reporter, and every other man looking, would prefer I was a tart.” I liked to flirt—and dance and blow a kiss or two—but I’d been reluctant to settle into anything more significant, not wanting to interfere with my obligations to the stage and to my family. My gaze wandered past the reporter to a woman nestled in a man’s embrace. They were lost in each other’s gaze, lips parted in a joy I couldn’t even fathom. My chest twinged with a sense of loss for something I’d never had. What would adoration from someone with whom you were equally enamored feel like? Sadness nipped at my thoughts, and I pushed my attention back to my brother.
Freddie grunted disapprovingly. “Keep blowing kisses and he’ll have you written up as one.”
I laughed, though my heart wasn’t in it. Shoving aside my melancholy, I reverted to what I knew best—teasing, good ol’ Delly, always good for a laugh—winking at Mom, who was shaking her head at us, much as she did when we were younger. As often as she tsk-tsked and bossed us about, Mom was our chief supporter. She’d given up her life for us, moving from Omaha to New York City when we were kids so that we could enroll in dance school and make something of ourselves. Pop had remained behind to work and support us financially. Sometimes I wondered who wanted our success more.
From the time I was eight, Mom, Freddie, and I were an inseparable threesome. For this big trip, I’d feared our trio would be down to a duo, because our new producer in London initially refused to pay for Mom’s passage. But there’d also been a modest twinge of hope for that sort of freedom. However, she and Freddie made a stink about my needing a chaperone. In the end, the producer relented. Despite my hopes for breathing room, I couldn’t imagine leaving Mom behind. Our big break on British shores was as much a culmination of her hard work as it was ours—seemed only fair that she get to witness it.
Cozied up together, the three of us waved at those on the pier until the gangway was pulled up and the ship’s horn blasted, vibrating in our ears and limbs.
“A dance, Freddie, for our admirers.” I gave him the puppy eyes that always made him agreeable. Freddie hated doing any sort of exhibition without a million hours of practice. It was a large ask, but I made it all the same.
He stared at me, his indecision almost palpable.
“Please? A treat for our fans to remember us by until we’re back?” I said.
Freddie sighed in resignation.
“Don’t go breaking an ankle here,” Alex warned, his gaze stern. The man was out to protect his investment.
“Oh, Alex, we’re unbreakable.” Freddie grabbed my hand and gave me a twirl.
We swiveled into a shortened version of our favorite dance from “The Bust and Judy,” a.k.a. The Bunch and Judy. If the whole show had consisted of numbers like this one, we’d have sold out every night. We tapped our feet to catch the beat, and then swayed in rhythm to a song only we could hear. One-and-two-and-three-and-four, we faced our audience dancing side by side. Step, step-heel, and step. Step, step, step-heel, and step. Shuffle-step, stomp, pivot, step-heel, and heel-step. Then we faced each other for a waltz before breaking into jazz swings.
Dancing came as easily to us as walking, and we grinned at each other with glee. Our finale was a comical exaggerated walk, ending with a pair of step-kicks. Alex put two fingers in his mouth and whistled.
“Ta-da!” I laughed, wiggling my fingers. “More of that in London, folks.”
We posed for the cameras: my arm around Freddie’s shoulder, his arm around my waist, and our right legs flexed midair. The gathered crowds on the pier and the ship clapped. Despite so many years of performing, the sound of applause never grew old. It still made my heart skitter across my ribs.
The steamship lurched away from the pier, the space of water between us and land slowly increasing. Our adventure was finally beginning.
When New York was a speck on the horizon, we went inside to explore. Ushering us over a black-and-white-tiled floor with a long bright-blue runner, our porter took us up a wide circular staircase under a massive oval glass dome ornamented with leaded lunettes that allowed the sun to light our path.
* * *
Our rooms on the first-class deck were adjoining—Freddie in his own, Mom and I sharing. The white walls were decorated with intricate wood trim and reproductions of paintings I’d seen hung in museums. If I hadn’t felt the ship moving gently beneath the plush blue carpet, I would have thought we were back at the Plaza Hotel. A pair of polished wood bedsteads covered in silky cornflower-blue duvets greeted us. A small mahogany table was flanked by two chairs, and a marble sink was topped with a shiny mirror. Palm-leaf-shaped white porcelain sconces adorned the wall. Square windows lined the back wall, giving us a full view of the ocean.
“It’s warm in here.” I was surprised by the comfort of the cabin. I was always cold, and heating was important to me. I took off my fur stole and my coat, hanging them in the wardrobe. I fixed my dark hair in the mirror, pinning one of the curls back that had come loose. My cheeks were tinged pink from outside, but my red lipstick was still perfectly bright. “I think I’m going to like steamship travel. Do you think they’ll let us have a glass of champagne?”
It’d been three years since Prohibition began, and we couldn’t legally purchase alcohol in the States. But did the ocean count?
“I hope so,” Mom said.
Once settled, we made our way to the Louis XVI restaurant, where we met Alex and his wife. The five of us were seated at a table in the center of the dining room. Marble balustrades supported a balcony that hovered over the tables, and the ceiling was a work of art: scrolls and designs that made me think of photographs I’d seen of the Palace of Versailles. The color scheme was wine-red and soft yellow, with a plush plum-colored trellis carpet over an oak floor. Through large Georgian windows, I spotted guests lounging in a garden room.
“Champagne all around,” Alex announced. “Time for a toast.”
Crystal and cutlery clinked against fine china. I’d never felt so spoiled in my life. We’d been living at the Plaza, but Freddie kept a tight fist on our budget. The main expenses I incurred were my daily stocking purchase and sometimes weekly shoes, necessary because I wore them out so quickly when performing.
Champagne in crystal coupes was passed round. Alex raised his glass high. “To the stars of the newly minted Stop Flirting. You guys are going to knock ’em dead.”
“I hope we keep some of them alive; what good is a musical comedy without the laughter of live bodies?” I teased.
Alex and his wife laughed freely, but Mom’s chuckle was weak, and Freddie’s nervous. We clinked glasses, and then I took a sip of the effervescent bubbly. It tickled my nose and the back of my throat in the most delicious way. I wasn’t much of a drinker, but champagne was more than a drink; it was an experience. One I could get used to.
“To resounding success.” Mom’s words, though said with a smile, sent my heart skipping a beat, and Freddie stiffened beside me. The pressure weighing on us was immense, and constantly growing.
We ordered oysters on the half shell, followed, in my case, by Surrey Chicken, which tasted as if it could have been made at the Ritz.
As we finished our meal with bowls of plum pudding in brandy sauce, an older gentleman approached, his dark ship’s uniform covered in brass buttons and rows of insignia pins. He carried his cap under his arm, revealing the silver of his thinning hair.
