Starring Adele Astaire, page 11
Freddie grinned at me. “Right, a harmless baby. Just the granddaughter of the king and queen, who made a point to come to our show last night. Would you snub Their Majesties?”
“No,” I said begrudgingly. But the thing was, seeing our good friend Bertie and his duchess settled down with a baby after we’d danced together in dozens of clubs on our last tour, was a little depressing, and only a reminder that I’d yet to do the same. I was also a little nervous that David might be there.
“Out you go.”
Our chauffeur came around, opened the door, and we stepped out into the London summer heat. We were ushered by the royal staff of the Duke and Duchess of York’s residence into a drawing room, where Elizabeth stood beside Bertie, with a proud grin. Her short dark hair was parted in the middle, with a fringe of trimmed bangs on her forehead, which was all the rage. Elizabeth wasn’t beautiful, and when Bertie had asked her to be his wife there’d been plenty of pretty ladies put out by it. But she had an elegance about her and a commanding demeanor that seemed to keep her husband at attention beside her, and which I’d come to respect.
David was nowhere in sight, and I let out a sigh of both relief and disappointment.
“Welcome, welcome.” The usual stutter of the Prince of Wales’s younger brother was momentarily restrained.
“Your Graces.” I dipped into a curtsey, which I’d perfected on our last tour, and Freddie bowed.
“We’re so glad you accepted our invitation,” Elizabeth said. “Bertie told me your show is delightful, and I do so wish I’d been able to join last night when the King and Queen were present.”
“It w . . . wa . . . was brilliant,” Bertie said.
“We’re so glad you enjoyed the show.” I felt restrained in too formal a setting. I was used to dancing the Charleston with the princes, not feeling oppressed by the grand portraits hanging on the walls, and the forced stiffness of a proper state tea.
“Do sit down.” Elizabeth indicated the gilded wood and upholstered armchairs and then went to the bell pull.
A moment later, tea service arrived, followed by a nanny, who brought with her an infant dressed in white. The baby was quiet, reflective, and, though she was almost four months old, still to me seemed so small.
“Would you care to hold her?” Elizabeth asked me.
I glanced at Freddie, afraid to say no, and desperately wanting to. But my brother nodded, reminding me that if I shunned the offer it would offend not only our friends but the King and Queen as well.
“Of course.”
I held out my arms, feeling awkward. Had I ever held a baby before? Certainly I’d tried to hold Freddie, but I’d been so young, practically a baby myself. And I didn’t even remember that.
The nanny pressed Princess Elizabeth into my arms, her wide, blue eyes staring up at me as if she knew my trepidation and dared me to drop her. She was light, but surprisingly solid, with a tuft of light curls on her head.
“Well, hello, Princess,” I cooed softly, feeling as if I couldn’t move an inch for fear of dropping her onto the thick carpet.
Princess Elizabeth burbled up at me, wiggling her arms, with a smile of delight that reached a place deep inside of me and squeezed.
“You’re a . . . a . . . natural,” Bertie said.
I glanced up at him and smiled. “I never would have thought so, but she is such a pleasant baby. Certainly it is because of that.”
Elizabeth grinned with pride at her infant, and there was a little answering twinge in my belly. Apparently I, too, wanted to grin with pride at an infant I’d grown in my womb.
Before I started to panic, the nanny stepped in and took the baby from my arms, perhaps sensing my sudden change. She brought her to the duchess, who kissed her on the forehead, and then the baby princess was swept away.
“So, what’s next for you two?” Elizabeth asked as she poured us tea, a swift recovery from mother to hostess. Royals certainly did fascinate me.
“Delly is sitting for a portrait painted by the Austrian Expressionist Oskar Kokoschka.” Freddie smirked. “But he won’t let her see his progress.”
“Is that s . . . s . . . so?” Bertie asked.
“Twice a week, with Wassie.” I made an exaggerated anxious face. “I am a bit worried he’s painting me to look more like Wassie than myself, though, the way he’s being so secretive.”
“That darling Scottie of yours.” Elizabeth grinned and I sipped the perfectly prepared tea. “He’d give you a handsome face. I do so love dogs.”
I chuckled at that, surprised that Elizabeth had a sense of humor. From all her airs I would have expected her to be stuffy.
“What about a new sh . . . show?” Bertie lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around his face as he sipped his tea. Elizabeth cast him a look that said she didn’t like him smoking, but he ignored her.
“Lady Be Good is supposed to run for another few months, but Alex Aarons is already floating a new idea our way for the States, called Smarty.”
“Another comedy?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yes,” Freddie replied.
“And will you be brother and sister again?” Elizabeth asked.
Freddie shook his head. “We wanted something different—and no more lovers, either.” He chuckled. “This time I’m going to be a guardian to three girls, and Adele happens to be one of them.”
“Oh, I can’t wait for it to debut in the West End.” Elizabeth daintily bit into a cucumber sandwich.
“The way our last couple of shows have gone, hopefully London will have us back again after the New York run,” Freddie said.
Having spent the better part of 1926 in London, and knowing it would be well into 1927 before we were back in the States, this side of the Atlantic was starting to feel like home again. Was it possible to have a home in both places?
“Your baby will be a toddler by then,” I jested.
Elizabeth chuckled. “Oh, my! I can’t even imagine it.”
“We’ve still a good few months of the show here in London before we tour in Glasgow. You haven’t gotten rid of us yet,” Freddie said.
Bertie drew in a long drag of his cigarette. “I’ll p . . . p . . . pester my brother to host a farewell party for the both of you at S . . . St. James’s Palace when the time c . . . comes.”
“We’d be honored.” Freddie took a scone from the platter. “The parties at St. James’s Palace are one of a kind.”
“Your family has been so good to us,” I said. “We’re very lucky to count you as friends.” I bit my lip, hoping that referring to a prince and his wife as friends wasn’t a “common” gaffe. “Is that okay to say?”
Bertie laughed and flicked his cigarette ash. “Even royals need friends.”
And I was glad we’d remained so; even though the courtship between myself and David hadn’t lasted, we’d remained on friendly terms, and he’d even been to see Lady Be Good at least half a dozen times, bringing an entourage with him each time.
“Well, you can certainly count on us,” Freddie said, nodding in Bertie’s direction.
* * *
August 1927
Philadelphia, PA
“Freddie, this is an epic disaster.” I dropped to the stage floor, stretching out my legs. It was nearing one o’clock in the morning, and we’d been rehearsing for what felt like days on end at the Shubert Theatre in Philadelphia.
“A total turkey,” Freddie agreed, taking off his hat and tossing it out into the auditorium. “If we never get it right here, New York will jeer us off the stage.”
“Tomato is certainly not my color,” I added, hoping the joke would crack a smile onto Freddie’s face.
“Especially rotten ones.” He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I don’t want to be here all night.” I lay all the way down on the floor, stretching out my sore muscles, especially my calves, which felt particularly tight tonight. What would it be like to wake up and not be in pain?
“At this point we’ll have to be here the rest of the year to get it right.”
It wasn’t that the musical numbers weren’t good, and the choreography wasn’t bad either, but nothing seemed to be hitting the mark. The comedic punch lines fell flat, the timing in the script awkward; everything just felt skewed. And, after two fantastic shows that blew the critics’ hats off, this felt wrong.
“Let’s call it a day?” I suggested, my arm flopping over my eyes. I could fall asleep right here. Disappointment made exhaustion all the more potent.
The other members of the cast and the theatre crew had stilled, listening intently. Freddie was the unofficial referee for us when it came to calling the shots.
“All right, but we’ll be back here first thing.”
The auditorium echoed with the whoops and hollers of everyone’s excitement. Even I sat up with a bit more oomph than I’d had for the past couple of hours.
Outside the theatre, our shiny black baby Rolls, which we’d shipped back from London, waited with our chauffeur to take us to our hotel. It was one of the only ones in New York, and probably Philadelphia, too. We’d been back in the States barely a month before rehearsals had started at the Shubert, and, boy, did I have some major regrets, one of which was not being in New York.
The following morning, not as refreshed as we would have liked, Freddie and I returned to the theatre to try to rehearse this performance into shape. Freddie told me to go on ahead while he spoke to the chauffeur about washing the Rolls, which had a few white blotches of bird poop on the hood.
I meandered into the auditorium to find Alex Aarons talking to a handsome gentleman with a distinguished mustache and dressed in a three-piece suit that looked as dapper as the ones Freddie had bought on Savile Row. The two of them turned their gazes toward me and I couldn’t help but smile.
“Ah, the lady of the hour,” Aarons said. “Sir William Gaunt, this is Miss Adele Astaire.”
“A pleasure.” William Gaunt’s British accent sent a thrill through me, as did the warmth in his brown eyes.
He took my hand in his and brushed my knuckles with his lips, his mustache tickling my skin. I knew I missed England, but in that moment I missed it even more.
“Mr. Gaunt owns a theatre in London and is interested in expanding his financial backing in the States.”
“I saw your performance of Lady Be Good in the West End,” William said. “I’d like to support you and your brother here as well.”
Freddie took that moment to walk through the doors, and judging by the way his shoulders stiffened he wasn’t too pleased to see possibly another suitor taking a shine to me. Freddie had been offering to fight them off for years, but there was something different about William from all the other beaus.
Maybe it was my nostalgia for London, or maybe the fact that I was hating this play so much, but the idea of settling down was creeping closer to the surface. Whatever it was, Mr. Gaunt’s charm was utterly enticing.
“Fred Astaire.” My brother stuck out his hand, breaking the spell.
“Sir William Gaunt.” They shook, perhaps a little harder than necessary.
“A Brit,” Freddie said with a not-so-friendly grin. “Welcome to the States.”
William either didn’t notice Freddie’s brusque behavior, or he brushed it off.
“I’d love to take the two of you to dinner tonight.” He glanced toward Aarons. “Of course, with your producer here as well. To discuss bringing Smarty to London.”
Freddie and I looked at each other, a little bit of panic in us both perhaps, given that the show was a total wreck.
“Dinner it is.” Freddie’s tone might have sounded cordial to everyone else, but I’d known him since the day he was born, and, boy, was my brother feeling the opposite right now. “We’ve got to rehearse. If you’ll excuse us.”
Freddie took my elbow, and I let myself be led away. “You’re being unfriendly,” I said under my breath.
“That guy’s a total cad.”
“You think anyone who shows a romantic interest in me is a cad.” I folded my arms over my chest.
“Did you see the way he was looking at you?”
“Clearly not the way you did.”
Freddie humphed. “Mark my words, Delly, that Sir Cads-a-lot is up to no good.”
I chuckled. “Oh, Freddie. It’s not like I’m going to marry him. We’re going out to dinner. For business.”
“Ha! That’s how it all starts.”
And Freddie was right. William charmed me right into his arms, and within a few months, I’d said yes to the magic question.
* * *
Freddie was going to kill me.
My vision was a little crooked as I gazed at the watch I’d slipped from William’s pocket.
Funny Face—renamed from Smarty, and epically better than when we’d first started—would have already had the curtain call by now. And I wasn’t at the theatre. Jeepers! Instead I was definitely a bit sozzled at a cocktail party I didn’t even want to attend.
“I need to go.” I faced William, trying to swallow around a thick tongue. I rarely drank liquor, and especially not before a show.
“Oh, come on, that’s what Sugar’s for,” he said, referring to my understudy.
I shook my head, but it felt slow, and as if my brain were sloshing around my skull. How much had I drunk? Too much . . . it was because I didn’t want to be at this party, and had been strong-armed into it by William, whom I’d agreed to marry in a moment when he was being sweet.
“No, William. I need to go.” I dropped his pocket watch and turned around, stumbling a bit to the right.
William grasped my elbow, steadying me. “All right, but you’re not going to be any good onstage.”
“I shouldn’t have come here with you.” Already my head was starting to pound with the beginnings of a hangover.
“Why?” William frowned, then switched to a smile, the one he used to try to convince me that he was right. “You’re allowed a little fun. And you want to retire when we get married, anyway.”
I scowled. “That doesn’t mean I want to disappoint my brother and the cast.”
William shrugged, as if my responsibilities were unimportant. “They might as well get used to it.”
That didn’t sit right, but I ignored him, and the wrong feeling in my belly, because it was hard enough to concentrate on walking, let alone the strange things he was saying.
We made it to the theatre, and I found my way backstage, tripping only twice, on who knows what.
“What the devil?” Freddie shouted when he caught sight of me. “You’re twenty-five minutes late! The curtain’s already gone up and we’re supposed to go on right now.”
“I just need to put on my costume,” I said, but it came out sounding slurred and it took me forever to form the words.
“You’re drunk. How can you be drunk?” he said accusingly, arms flung wide in exasperation.
I rubbed my forehead and closed my eyes. “I don’t know.”
Freddie cursed under his breath and practically dragged me back to the dressing room, where I fell gratefully onto the chair. A sharp tang in my nose made my eyes water, and I coughed as Freddie wafted smelling salts in front of my face. I waved him away.
“Get ready,” he ordered. “I’ll ask them to hold the curtain for five minutes. But that’s all you’ve got. I can’t believe you’ve done this.” He mumbled on his way out, and a maid rushed in, helping me dress. There wasn’t time for makeup, and my hair would have to be what it was. I was mortified—and dismayed. My brother had had to pull me out of a number of scrapes throughout our lives together, but never had I disappointed him more than I had tonight.
I made it onstage and climbed into the toy wagon, trying my best to pull the necessary faces as Freddie sang. Fortunately, I barely had any lines in this number, but when it was time for me to stand and dance I nearly went over the edge of the stage. Freddie grabbed hold of me and we played it off, but those who’d seen the show before would know.
Freddie dragged me offstage at the end of the number, and before I knew what was happening he slapped me hard across one cheek and then the other.
The shocking sting on both sides of my face brought tears to my eyes, but all the fuzziness in my head went away in a flash. “You hit me,” I accused him, touching the hot places on each cheek.
“I’m sorry about that, but something had to be done! You nearly fell into the audience out there. You could have broken your neck.”
“I can’t believe you hit me.” My brother had never laid a hand on me in my life.
“We’ll talk about this later. Now’s the time for you to sober up. Our next number is coming up, and I can’t be wondering if you’re going to fall off the stage.”
“Freddie, you hit me!” I was practically hysterical.
“Delly, don’t. You are drunk and a danger to everyone on that stage. I needed to do something to sober you up. Now, I’m sorry, but you need to get it together.” As an afterthought he tossed out, “I’ll give you twenty bucks later.”
I could have argued some more, but we had a show to put on. With one last glower in his direction, I rushed back to my dressing room and stared in the mirror at the twin cheery handprints. What had I been thinking, showing up to a performance drunk? In all our years together, this had never happened before. Not until William had come into my life. I took out the powder puff and did my makeup, covering up the slaps.
By the time I was done, and our number was cueing up, I felt a heck of a lot better than when I’d first gotten there. We finished out the show—not our best, by any means—but I didn’t fall into the audience, either.
I vowed to never drink before a show again, and Freddie handed me twenty dollars.
“I know who was behind that,” Freddie said, as he slipped his wallet back into his pocket. “And while I blame you for imbibing, I blame him for encouraging you.”
“You hate him anyways.”
“He’s no good for you, Delly. No good at all. He’s controlling, opinionated, and a real jerk.” Freddie shook his head, and I felt the weight of his judgment and was embarrassed by it.
