Starring Adele Astaire, page 21
“Thank you,” I said, keeping my voice cheerful, my smile sunny. Because, despite my soon-to-be mother-in-law’s tart attitude, that was exactly how I planned to take each day of this new chapter as a married woman, as Lady Charles Cavendish—with sheer joy and exuberance. There was absolutely nothing that could bring me down now.
Or so I thought. Several days before our wedding, Charlie was rushed to the hospital with acute appendicitis, which the doctor lamented was only exacerbated by his heavy drinking. His mother was quick to point out to me Charlie’s wild ways—though she’d said “defiant,” as if having a few too many cocktails was a crime. Where his mother lacked empathy and even concern, Charlie’s sister Anne made up for it in spades, comforting me in my fear for his health.
True to Charlie form, he snapped back, springing from his hospital bed with a new pep in his step. Despite his mother never having warmed to me, and with such an attitude depriving us of a lavish London wedding with all the pomp due a duke’s son, we were wed in a small, private ceremony on the grounds at Chatsworth.
The only disappointment—besides Freddie not coming—was that my dear Violet wasn’t allowed to attend the wedding, though she promised to take a break from working to have tea with me when I was next in London.
The chapel was filled with the scents of daffodils and acacia, scarlet camellias and arum lilies. With an orange carnation bouquet to bring out the splash of orange at the waist of my beige satin Mainbocher gown, I walked down the aisle. The diamond bracelet Charlie had gifted me twinkled in the light of all the candles. As sour as my new mother-in-law was, I didn’t care. For the love of my life had swept me off my feet.
After a short luncheon, the duke surprised us with the most magnificent gift—Lismore Castle in Ireland, which was to be our new home. We didn’t even stay the night in England, setting sail immediately for Ireland.
The servants stood in a line outside the castle to greet us, but I was so overwhelmed by it all that Charlie ordered our dinner be brought to our bedroom. One might have thought I’d be shy, sitting across from my new husband in an old castle in a foreign country, but all I could think about were the possibilities.
When we finished eating, I turned on the gramophone in the corner, playing an old record. As the soft trills of strings and brass filled the room, Charlie unbuttoned my dress, kissing each inch of exposed skin. We stood bare in front of each other and did the most natural thing that came to me—we danced. Waltzing naked, music filling our souls, the light of the moon filtering in through the large windows. We twirled and dipped, touched and tasted. Our legs entwining, the heat of his warm body joining with mine. It was the most sensual thing I’d ever done.
Then Charlie laid me on the bed, and we made our own kind of music in a new dance that had me certain I’d died and gone to heaven.
Part Three
Shoes with Wings
To Adele Astaire
Stars danced when she was born—
Twin sunbeams at her feet,
Which touch the earth I scorn—
The stage to them is sweet.
—Walter Kingsley
Chapter Seventeen
Adele
The Limelight
Miss Violet Wood may no longer perform onstage, but you can find her serving cocktails to box seats during the matinee shows at the Winder Garden theatre. We hear for a sizeable tip, she’ll dance with the patrons before the show. In fact, last week, a young gentleman reportedly brought with him two musicians who struck up a song for Miss Wood to teach him the Charleston before the start of Follow a Star. We’re left wondering who has the true spotlight of the show, the actual cast, or the cocktail waitress?
October 8, 1933
There are moments throughout our lives when we look back in reflection and think, “Oh, that was certainly a most painful time.” Or how we laughed, or cried, or rejoiced.
What happened on this day was arguably my greatest triumph, and my darkest hour.
The tiny, perfectly molded, still-warm fingers of my baby girl rested in my palm. A hand made in the image of mine. Delicate fingernails that looked as if they’d been manicured by an angel. Dark, soft curls on her apple-sized head. Large watery blue eyes the color of Charlie’s that stared into mine for the few tragic hours that she lived. Those precious few hours that felt like only seconds, when I snuggled her tiny, sweet-smelling body to my breast, and she grasped my finger weakly in her hand.
I’d spent so many years of my life in training for every stage. Hours of practice. Hours of perfection. But there was no rehearsal for loss. No way to prepare myself for the gut-wrenching sorrow and ache of the doctor saying, “She’s gone. I’m so sorry.”
Even the solid heat of Charlie’s embrace as he tugged me to his chest while I sobbed violent tears was hardly a comfort. I wanted my baby. The sweet innocent being that I’d grown in my body, that I’d struggled to push out. The wee thing I’d come to tease when no one was around, and who kicked at my tummy with exuberance. She was going to be a dancer.
She was going to be alive.
And now she wasn’t. The nursery I’d decorated with the help of our genuinely excited staff would remain empty.
What should I say? What should I do?
Where was my mother? Freddie . . . Where were the people whom I needed around me now? The ones who could provide comfort. I had Charlie, but he, too, was mourning the loss of our much-wanted daughter. We had all the lovely people at Lismore who kept the place running, who helped me be lady of the manor, but none of them could help with this.
At first I’d been dubious about being a mother. Nauseated all the time, dizzy, and even the slightest whiff of booze made me queasy—much to Charlie’s chagrin. But as the days passed, and the sickness subsided, and I started to imagine . . . oh, how I imagined . . .
She was going to be sweet Annie Evelyn—named for both our mothers. I suppose she still was. Annie Evelyn Cavendish. Born and died the same day after struggling to survive for three hours.
Perhaps it was my fault. I went into labor before my time. We weren’t ready. The doctor wasn’t ready. Annie wasn’t ready.
“Eat something,” Charlie said, placing a tray prepared by our wonderful cook on the table beside the bed, and flicking on the lamp there.
The curtains were drawn tight. My sheets freshly changed. The lamp gave off a soft glow. Tilly and Wassie curled against my back, a constant comfort, knowing there was a loss, knowing I needed them. The scent of the Irish fare would have normally delighted me. But without the baby inside me, without her in my arms, there was nothing for me but despair. And certainly no hunger.
“I can’t.” Fresh tears stung my already swollen eyes.
Charlie didn’t look surprised, but, rather, resigned. He’d not been able to eat either. “A drink, then.” He pulled the ever-present flask from a pocket, unscrewed the cap, and waved its whiskey scent beneath my nose.
I turned away. He shrugged and took a long swig himself, closing his eyes before he settled into a silk upholstered chair by the shuttered window. The place where he’d taken up vigil.
“I called Freddie,” he said. “And your mom should be informed on the ship.”
I nodded, numb, my tongue unable to form words about this particular subject. I was grateful that Charlie had been the one to tell them of my latest failure, my tragedy. But, really, how was I going to ever get out of this bed and face the world? Freddie was in London for a show, and Mom on her way here to welcome a child who had already died.
Tears ceaselessly leaked from my eyes. It was a wonder there were any left. My eyes burned. My body ached. Even the pills they’d given me for the pain did nothing to alleviate the agonizing pulse in my chest. At some point Mom arrived, and I was happy to let her take care of everything.
Maybe sleep would help. At least I wouldn’t be conscious.
Except it was hard to fall asleep, and when I finally did my dreams were worse. Darling Annie’s face every time I closed my eyes, and I woke up sobbing, screaming more than once, and finding Charlie sobbing on his knees on the floor beside me, begging me not to go. He was deeper in his cups than usual, and perhaps that was the thing that brought me back, knowing that Charlie’s tipples were leading to tumbles, and he needed me to get up out of this bed.
If I couldn’t do it for myself, at least I needed to do it for him.
“Let’s go to London,” I said one morning, unsure of how much time had passed.
Charlie, startled from where he’d been reading in the chair, likely all night, peered at me over his spectacles.
“I need to get out of this room. Away from this castle.” I needed to be away from the freshly dug tiny grave outside in the family cemetery with a tiny marker that said simply baby girl. Without a christening, she’d not been officially named.
“All right.” Charlie perked up. He closed the book, not bothering to mark his place, and set it on the side table, causing me to wonder if he’d been reading at all.
“I’ll have our things packed.” I tossed the blankets back, standing on wobbly legs that didn’t feel like my own. I’d always had strong legs. It didn’t make sense to me how quickly they’d tired.
“I’ll tell your mom.” He stood to leave, to find my mother, who was probably already down in the dining room having her morning tea.
Tilly and Wassie swarmed around me, between and around my legs, as if they wanted to provide the support that my muscles refused to.
Charlie paused, watching me uneasily.
Even pregnant, I’d tried to keep up the strength I’d built as a dancer. I took long walks, I ran up and down the stairs (when no one was paying attention), and I danced every morning for at least an hour or two. Reviving the choreography of all the characters I’d lived onstage.
But now my muscles didn’t hold me upright. They were weak, a stranger’s legs. Even my toes felt numb as I curled them into the carpet.
I straightened my back, bent myself at the knees. The cramps in my belly had ceased, at least, but the blood still trickled, as if it would never, ever stop. My body was reminding me of the loss. Of the very humanness of myself.
I lay back down in bed and the moment of surety vanished. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“It’s been two weeks,” Charlie said, a note of despair in his voice.
“How long did the doctor say?” I pulled the blanket up over my body, sure that the doctor would agree that remaining in bed was best. Tilly and Wassie joined me, licking my elbow and chin.
“I think ten days. It’s been fourteen.”
“Oh.” That was disappointing. I had truly hoped I’d be forced to stay there forever.
“You don’t have to worry about a thing, Delly darling,” Charlie rushed to say. “Your mom and I will take care of everything.”
I looked over at the man I’d married. The one who’d made me swoon. The one who’d tried so desperately in the past two weeks when he was sober to make me happy, and when he was sauced to make me laugh.
“I love you, Charlie,” I said, swiping at the small tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
“Well, likely you’d be dancing onstage with Freddie.” He edged closer, a hopeful look in his eyes, as if he thought I might come back around.
“Let’s go to London. I want to see my brother’s show.” After all, I had promised to be in the audience, his biggest fan. Although I could do without his new wife. Phyllis. A money-hungry, jealous tramp, if ever there was one. She was possessive of my brother. Too opinionated. Well, that’s how it felt most days. Other times I found her sweet as apple pie, just as the rest of the world found her charming. And she made Freddie happier than a bee in a field full of freshly blooming flowers. I’d never seen him so infatuated. So I guess I’d forgive her any of the tart comments she’d made in my direction, because they were likely deserved.
They were doing a European tour for a few months, and already I’d missed some of their time here. I didn’t want to miss all of it.
“There’s to be a party at Chatsworth, too, darling girl. It will be a nice distraction.” Charlie looked like he was ready to drop to his knees and beg, so I made the choice then to acquiesce, even if my legs didn’t seem capable of holding up a feather, let alone my body.
“And Cecil’s . . .” I mused. I’d declined his house-party invitation before because we’d assumed I’d be at home with a newborn strapped to the tit. A stark reminder that we were so far from where we’d thought we’d be right now. How would I be able to confront all the faces drawn in sympathy? “We can go to that as well.”
“Smashing.” Charlie made a fist in the air, rocking on his heels, and I realized then how very much he, too, needed to get out of this house.
For Charlie, I reminded myself.
“And Christmas in London will be nice,” I added, knowing that I’d much rather be away from here, where I’d already embroidered a red stocking in white thread with baby.
“Whatever you want, Delly. Always.”
I tried again a week later. More than once I’d lain back down in bed, but between Mom and Charlie I’d managed to get dressed and onto the boat that would take us across the Irish Sea to Liverpool, and then a train ride to London, arriving at our house in Carlton Gardens.
We went to see Freddie and Phyllis, who were nothing but kindness and empathy, and I told them not to mention it again, because every time I thought of Annie Evelyn I wanted to cry. Freddie was brilliant onstage. Watching him whirl and tap and grin, I was so proud of him. And it only affirmed all the more that I was happy in my retirement.
After that night out, calling cards came flooding in from all our friends, and even some who weren’t. We were invited to dinner parties, theatre performances, clubs, garden parties, musicals, operas, teas, and dinners. True to British nature and propriety, no one mentioned the loss of our baby, even if the papers were reporting it left and right—all of which Charlie had ordered our staff to keep away from me.
The first tea was a miserable affair, but that was mostly because of the company. I loathed Kitty Winn and her obnoxious, snobby mouth. I’d thought that I might like her, given that she was born in New York, and an American married to an aristocrat could use as many allies as possible, but she made me want to run out into traffic. Married to the Honorable Charles Winn, the second son of a baron, Kitty acted like she was higher on the priority list than even the Duchess of Devonshire.
Within the week, I was feeling more like myself in the social whirl. Or at least I could forget about the self I’d almost become. The self that was a mother. The self that had a tiny person relying on her.
Now it was solely me, and I was relying on Charlie and Mom. Oh, sure, anyone could say that Charlie relied on me, but really he relied most on my mother—who seemed to keep him in line when I couldn’t—and on the flask in his pocket that kept him from throwing his anger at the world.
That anger was one of the many secrets he’d shared late at night as we’d lain in bed during those first few weeks of joyous marital bliss. The honeymoon, where all the secrets are spilled onto the pillow when darkness falls and all you can see is the flashing white of the moon glinting off teeth and eyes.
Charlie and his mother didn’t see eye to eye on most things, which was his polite way of saying that he didn’t like her at all. His father, however, was much more jovial, and Charlie enjoyed hunting with the duke. A diversion he planned to teach me when we were at Chatsworth for the house party in the coming weeks.
Hunting was not a sport I would say I intended to pursue, but, rather, I liked the idea of riding a horse at breakneck speed. I wondered if the jockeys on the racehorses that my brother and Charlie adored felt as superhuman as they looked. Mother had always made me ride so carefully when we’d visited the horse farms and camps on vacation. Oh, to be chasing through the woods on a quest for something other than my nightmares. Of course, I didn’t want to be the one shooting. That part didn’t interest me, but the rest, yes.
The freedom to ride and feel the intensity in the roots of my hair, the baying of the dogs as they fell in line with one another seeking their prey.
It was all rather morbid, I knew, but it beat thinking of the death of my child. The death of my dreams. It beat wondering if I was too old. If I’d waited too long. My insides shriveled up and decayed, and unable to support a growing baby.
The doctor I’d seen upon arriving in London had said that all would be well and that my body would be able to implant an egg with Charlie’s seed in my womb, but only time would tell. And I wasn’t ready, besides. I wondered if I’d ever be. To go through all that work, to have had such hope, again, only for it to end in tragedy.
It was a cold, rainy day in mid-November when we arrived at the grand house that Chatsworth was. A relic of the days of old and filled with history that seemed as if it belonged in storybooks rather than on the pages of an ancestral tome.
The stone edifice darkened from the damp weather, droplets coursing down the iridescent glass windows like maps. Even the carved figures that lined the roof looked somber.
Aside from the married folks, the house was rife with virgins and randy bucks who were there for a lark and a good flirt. Knowing myself how young folks acted, I wondered who was sneaking off to the butler’s pantry and who would be more clandestine by hiding in the thickets of the garden that dated back to Elizabethan times. My favorite part of the castle gardens was Queen Mary’s Bower, allegedly constructed when Mary, Queen of Scots, was held captive in the house, as a place for her to exercise. I’d done cartwheels there when we were first married and the future seemed so bright.
The drawing rooms and parlors and dining hall were all dripping in pine boughs and cranberries, red and gold bows, and carved wooden reindeer. The duchess did have an eye for decorations, and her Christmas tree was perhaps the most startlingly gorgeous thing I’d ever seen. Even the pine needles felt softer than the usual prick-your-skin kind.
