Starring Adele Astaire, page 15
I sat beside David at dinner, and, before Cavendish could take the chair on the other side of me, I tugged Violet into it. But that didn’t matter so much, because he circled the table and took the seat opposite me, grinning with a knowing wink at how I’d tried to avoid him.
Oh, Lord, I think I’m in trouble.
Dinner was a boisterous affair, with one course after another paired with one drink after another. I still didn’t imbibe much, but every time I turned around my glass was freshly filled. And I swear Cavendish must have had a hole at the bottom of his glass, because it didn’t seem to matter how many times he called for a refill—his gaze never wavered, his speech never slurred. Not like mine.
I glanced at Violet. “I think we’d best leave after dessert,” I murmured. “No club for me tonight. Is that all right? I honestly don’t think my body would forgive me if I worked it any more tonight.”
She nodded vigorously. “I need to get home soon, too. I promised Caty a chat after she gets off work,” she said. “And Freddie wants us at the theatre at the crack of dawn.”
As she said it, I looked over her head to where Freddie sat, on her other side. “Have no doubt, Delly,” he said, “the crack of dawn it will be. Don’t you go making plans to go to a club past midnight. Not tonight. There’s nothing doing after the clock strikes.”
I rolled my eyes at my brother’s warning, which Cavendish caught, and he chuckled. “You’re as funny offstage as you are on,” he mused.
“I suppose that’s what makes me so good at my job.” Heat came to my cheeks at how much attention he was paying me. “I am the face of Funny Face.”
He chuckled. “You’re a doll.”
“Not quite. I assure you. I’ve got a not-so-sweet side.”
“Oh, is that so?” Cavendish said.
“I can cuss like a sailor.” I gave a perfunctory nod, unsure of why the hell I’d said that.
He laughed. “Well, as a soldier, I challenge you to that.”
“A soldier? I thought you were a lord?”
He grinned at me and took a long sip of his drink, eyeing me over the rim. “I’m a lieutenant, and, yes, I am noble born, though a lowly second son.”
“Is a second son so lowly?” All the title stuff with these aristocrats confused the hell out of me. “You look better than low to me. You are bloody fetching.” Now I’ve done it . . .
Cavendish’s grin widened. “I’ll take that as a compliment. In the eyes of the peerage, however, yes. My father is the Duke of Devonshire, and my elder brother the Marquess of Hartington, and I am merely Lord Charles Cavendish.”
I cocked my head to the side, trying to understand. I might have hung out with princes but that didn’t make me a peerage expert. “I’ll take your word for it. But I bet you live in a castle.”
“Sometimes.” He winked. “My other houses are merely manses.”
I laughed and pointed at him. “You’re a tease.”
“So say my servants.” He shrugged, his eyes twinkling with humor.
That made me laugh harder. “Do stop.”
“It’s true, I’m filthy rich and I’ve only ever known privilege. Will you forgive me?”
“Yes. But only because you’re funny.”
He chuckled. “So, shall we give your vulgar tongue another whirl?”
Dash it! My eyes widened, and I nearly choked on said tongue. “Pardon me?”
Cavendish let out a roar of laughter. “That did not come out the way I intended. I meant your claiming to possess a sailor’s vernacular, beyond a mere bloody.”
Heat flushed my face. My God, I hope he didn’t find me to be dopey. “Ah, Cavendish, you’re quite the jester. I’ve not had nearly enough gin for that here.”
“Shall I escort you back to your hotel, then, for a nightcap?”
Oh, I wanted to say yes. Because the idea of a scandalous chat with this handsome lord was oh too delicious. But it would also be in all the papers, and have William, traitor that he was for not coming to my opening night, flying off the handle. Not that he deserved his ire. If he ever showed up I’d break things off. Didn’t seem right to do it in a letter.
“I don’t think my fiancé would like that.” It’d been hard to say the words, and I was certain it would squash any future conversation between us. Disappointment made my belly do a dive.
Lord Cavendish lowered his specs on his nose and looked back and forth down the table and then straight into my soul when he said, “I don’t see a fiancé here.”
Oh, yes, indeed, I was going to be in trouble. Deep trouble.
“That’s because he’s a rat, but you didn’t hear me say that,” Freddie interjected, leaning across the table.
“Dear Freddie, do be kind,” I said, but my heart wasn’t in the admonishment. Because I was feeling an awful lot like my brother was right.
Lord Cavendish had aptly pointed out that my fiancé was nowhere in sight on my opening night. That cut deep. I’d known William was a bit dismissive of my career, though he liked asking me to pay often enough, considering. And because I wanted to get married, to start a family, to finally stop working and start living, I’d let his lack of consideration go. Had been lazy in letting him go, too.
At thirty-two years old, I was practically ancient for not having married yet. If I waited any longer, whatever was left of my womb would dry up and crumble into dust.
Nearly being blown up on Billy Leeds’s Fan Tail, lying there in pain and staring up at the sky, I’d realized it was about dang time I got moving on all that. Did I really want to die, having only a career to show for myself? Did I want to dance until my legs gave out, refusing to move another inch?
I thought perhaps no. That I should be content to die once I’d had a family of my own. Something more than dancing and working.
William was heir to a vast fortune. I could retire from dancing easily when the time came to start a family. Maybe in a year or two. By then he’d be out from under his father’s purse strings—and not perpetually broke—or, at least, that’s what he promised.
But even the thought of quitting the theatre and leaving Freddie at the height of our popularity caused a spasm of guilt, and fear, too. I didn’t want to disappoint my brother. Or Mom, who had sacrificed everything so I could succeed.
I also didn’t want a sham of a marriage. If only I’d met Lord Charles Cavendish before William. The man sitting in front of me only reinforced that my fiancé didn’t deserve me.
* * *
December 20, 1928
Shaftesbury Theatre, London
“No use getting up this morning, Delly,” Freddie called through my bedroom door.
“What?” I pulled my arm from beneath Wassie’s warm body and moved the blanket that Tilly was lying on to free myself. I rose quickly, pulling on my robe and opening the door a crack. “Why not?”
Rehearsal was in an hour, and I’d never known my brother to miss even a minute. In his mind, if you weren’t early, you were late.
Freddie held out a cup of coffee, the steam rising from the nectar of the gods. “If I’d known that was the fastest way to get you out of bed, I’d have started using that line a long time ago.”
I rolled my eyes and took the offered coffee, sipping the too-strong cup. “What’s going on?”
“All the streets around the theatre have blown up.”
I nearly spit out my coffee as I followed Freddie down the hall to the breakfast nook. “Blown up? How?” My skin itched from where I’d been burned, phantom pains for the men who’d just suffered.
“Some poor city-worker chap was looking for a gas leak with a lit match.”
I wrinkled my nose as his words sank in. I set down my coffee on the round breakfast table and slipped onto a chair. “Oh, dear . . . is he . . . ?”
“From the sounds of it, he’s still alive.”
I let out a breath and rubbed absently at the faint burn scars on my ankles. “That’s a shock, and a relief.”
“Yeah. But the streets are all a mess.” Freddie shook his head and sat down opposite me, opening a copy of the morning newspaper, my face staring back at me from one of the columns we’d started to contribute to on dancing.
“So much so, they are closing down the show?” I asked.
“Only for a few days.” Freddie folded the paper and slid it across the table toward me. “Want to go and see the damage for ourselves?”
“I do.” Flashes of my own explosion danced before my eyes. But it was necessary to face our fears, wasn’t it? To grow stronger?
“Go and get ready,” Freddie said, pushing away from the table. “I’ll take your hounds for a quick walk.”
“Thank you.” Taking the paper with me so I could cut out our article for a scrapbook, I hurried to get dressed. Bundled up against the winter chill, we headed down to the Shaftesbury Theatre but were stopped a couple of blocks away.
The streets were barricaded and lined with dozens of workers. On the perimeter were masses more people trying to get a peep like us, their breath puffing in white clouds of steam.
“Can’t get you farther than this, sir,” the cabbie said.
“We’ll hoof it from here.” Freddie paid the tab and opened the door. We climbed out, waved through by the policemen who recognized us, and picked our way across the road that looked as if it had burst open from below.
The streets themselves were rubble, large portions disrupted, completely impassable—even swaths of sidewalk. A lamppost right outside the theatre was leaning over, hanging on by some invisible thread from underground, the glass dome at the top crooked. Looked a lot like a drunken dancer to me. But the smell was the worst. The acrid scent of smoke and something burning, and I shuddered, remembering that smell from the boat explosion.
My breathing grew a little heavier, and Freddie took my elbow. “Are you all right?” he asked.
I nodded absently. “Well, I can see now why they won’t be opening.”
Secretly I was happy for the reprieve. William had called the day before, begging me to take the train to Edinburgh and spend Christmas with him. He’d been so apologetic about missing my shows and told me how awful he felt. Business had been tough recently, and he’d been buried up to his eyeballs in it. He begged me to forgive him, promised to make it right. It seemed like the right thing to give him another chance; after all, I’d fallen in love with him for a reason, hadn’t I? But forgiveness required an energy I just didn’t have.
Of course Mom balked at the idea of me going, for more reasons than one, the primary being the show. I’d casually said there was an understudy. Not because I wanted to make it work with William, but because I longed for a break to rest my aching bones—and I knew Violet would do the job perfectly. I’d seen Cavendish plenty and flirted with him enough to be half in love with the bloke. He danced like a dream and wowed me with his family lineage and tales.
I was ready to break off my engagement and not just so I wouldn’t feel so guilty—but because a part of me was clamoring to see if there was anything more with Cavendish. But I knew myself, too, which was the only reason I was holding back. I’d had plenty of flirtations and flings; fancied myself marrying a prince a few short years ago. Nothing ever stuck. That was probably why I was being so stubborn about remaining engaged to a man I couldn’t even find the nerve to set a date with.
William, for his part, was trying harder. He’d even come a few weeks ago and apologized to Mom for his rudeness; brought her a dozen roses, too. How could I not see the merit in that? Then again, why was I still bothering?
I sat on a pile of rubble next to Freddie, staring into a gaping hole in the road, wondering if this was a sign, and what sort of message it could be. And I decided not to go to Scotland.
Chapter Thirteen
Adele
The Limelight
Break out the hankies! Word in the West End is that Adele Astaire has managed to steal our star from the East End. Violet Wood will be making her debut on Broadway. New York City had better take care of our darling, because they can’t keep her, else risk the threat of another revolution! But we’ve high hopes we’ll see both enchanting twinkle toes back on this side of the pond considering Miss Astaire has once again attached herself to a handsome noble bachelor.
December 31, 1928
St. James’s Palace
Our car was waved through the gates of St. James’s Palace in a long, meandering line of taxis and chauffeured Rolls-Royces. We were lucky to have been sent a driver by the Prince of Wales himself, who’d invited us to dinner at the palace. It’d been a gas when we were invited on our last leg in London.
Of course William was busy tonight. By now I was used to it and didn’t care too much, anyway.
Freddie was dressed to the nines in a new suit from Savile Row, and the gown I’d sent for from our apartment in New York—a Mariano Fortuny—had arrived just in time. A minute-pleated, apricot silk confection that hugged my frame. A matching apricot belt with silver double-vine embroidery encircled my waist, with hand-painted glass beads sewn onto the silk cord along the seams. I wore a brand-new pair of silver shoes, and a white fur-lined wool coat.
The Rolls came to a stop in the lighted courtyard of the palace and the door was opened by a royal servant with a bow. We were escorted with the other guests to the reception hall, where our coats and hats were collected. A soft murmur of voices filled the air.
The palace was as elegant as ever, with gold and marble and crystal gracing nearly every surface. We followed the crowd past the liveried footmen and the stoic butler and through the double doors to the dining room. The grand hall was lit up by an impressive crystal chandelier that sent rainbows dancing among the guests.
“The Astaires!” David gushed as we approached. “Most delighted you could come. My goodness, it would have been stuffy without you, but do not tell anyone I said such.”
I curtseyed and Freddie bowed as we gave our thanks for the invitation. His brother Bertie, with his wife, Elizabeth, greeted us next.
“You’re both to sit by me,” David called to us. “Don’t let anyone take your place cards.”
“Not even your brother?” I teased, with a grin at the Duke of York, whom I’d grown so fond of over the years.
“Especially not him.” David winked, and we were whisked away so that he might greet his other guests.
We were seated at the long table, impressively laid out with crystal, china, and gold utensils. Silk napkins were snapped into our laps by footmen, and champagne poured into our flutes.
The table was filled mostly with aristocrats. Freddie and I were the only Americans. The moment I thought the seat across from me wouldn’t be filled, Lord Charles Cavendish was ushered into the dining hall by the butler and hurried over.
“Apologies for my delay,” he said to the princes.
“Charlie, I’ve seen you dive naked into the Thames on a dare; never apologize for something so mundane as time.” David laughed heartily.
Cavendish took his seat, glanced across the table at me with a shy, boyish smile, and raised his champagne glass in my direction. “Apologies to you, then, Miss Astaire, for the image my friend here has just placed in your mind.”
I grinned saucily. “Who says I minded?”
Freddie hid his smile, and Cavendish gave me an appreciative nod. Oyster soup was served, followed by lobster, and a half dozen other delectable dishes. But I could hardly process the taste of anything I put in my mouth, because my attention was fully on the handsome lord who sat across from me, continually making me laugh.
After supper, Freddie hung back long enough for Cavendish to take my arm and escort me up the grand stairs to the drawing room. A small band started playing music as we entered. Although half the guests were immediately drawn to cocktails and chairs, Cavendish raised his brow in my direction.
“I know your feet must be tired after weeks of performing, but could I convince you to dance with me?”
I was impressed that he even thought about how endless dancing might affect my body. Most people just wanted me to entertain them. Cavendish was different. “My feet could have fallen off and I’d still say yes.”
A small dimple appeared in his cheek. “Considering you float like a fairy when you dance, then I suppose you don’t need your feet.”
Cavendish held out his hand and I slipped my fingers over his palm. “I should say no,” I said softly as he pulled me into his arms.
“Pesky fiancé?”
I laughed. “Yes.”
“The daft fellow doesn’t know what he’s missing. Does he truly exist?”
“I think so.” I shrugged as he twirled me. “But I’m starting to believe I might have been mistaken.”
* * *
May 10, 1929
“You’re never going to believe this, Delly.” Freddie rubbed his hands together the way he did when he was very excited.
I skewered the olive in my cocktail and smiled sunnily at our guests, who’d come to celebrate Freddie’s birthday. Dozens of them loitered about our living room, leaning against the white wood-paneled walls and lounging in our clamshell silk chairs and on sofas. Several admired a new painting that hung in a gilded frame above the brick fireplace, a countryside horse-racing scene, which Freddie had bought at an auction in London because he’d become such a fan of the sport. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”
“We’ve had a telegram from Flo Ziegfeld.”
My God, was this going to be about a new performance? The idea of a show back in New York did hold some appeal, and an artist was never happier than when they knew they had another gig in the pipeline. Then again, I wasn’t certain I really wanted to leave London and the possibilities the city held—namely, personal ones. “What could he want?”
“He wants us to costar with Marilyn Miller. It’s going to be huge. I need to know. Are you willing to go back to New York?”
I knew what he was talking about—William. Whenever I thought of my fiancé another man’s face flashed in my mind’s eye. I was avoiding the situation entirely. I told myself it was because I was so busy with the show. But part of it was because I was scared to lose the one man who’d asked me to marry him. Scared to lose the dream of a family. It was stupid, yes, but I really had no other excuse.
