Starring Adele Astaire, page 22
Golden tinsel glimmered in the light from the chandelier, and the crystal ornaments let off rainbow prisms. Hand-painted bulbs of red, green, and gold were perfectly placed on every limb, and there were even several charming, gilded ornaments fashioned in the likeness of Chatsworth, Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle, and several other great houses and castles of the realm that I couldn’t name.
Charlie’s older brother, Edward, was fairly dripping in young ladies, while his wife averted her gaze. Their sisters Maud, Blanche, Dorothy, Rachel, and Anne were all tittering around, sipping cocktails that made their cheeks flush, until their mother gave them a stern look. Their husbands didn’t seem to care, smoking cigars and playing billiards with the other men. Dozens of society misses had come with their parents and brothers and were making a fine house party that reminded me so much of the ones I’d joined in the early ’20s with those who called themselves the Bright Young Things. But their cheer was too much for me, and I felt more like Ebenezer Scrooge than Darling Delly.
I sipped the same cocktails. Charlie sipped more, adding fresh drams from his own flask to a cup that was already toxic. He was tight more often than he was sober, and, though he was still charming in his way, it was exhausting pretending he wasn’t. Especially with the critical glances from his mother, the duchess. His sisters, however, were perfectly charming, and I loved Anne the most, as she was the least judgmental.
“Dance for us, just once,” the lot of them would call out, as music played softly in the drawing room while we sipped our after-dinner port.
I declined.
In the quiet and privacy of our room, Charlie kicked off his shoes, tugged off his jacket, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. He flopped onto the chaise by the banked hearth and let out a long breath, his head falling back to rest on the rolled cushion.
“Are you well?” I asked, worried he was dizzy from drink.
“I think better than you,” he murmured, then blinked his eyes open and beckoned me forward.
I padded across the thick carpet of our bedroom to the chaise, my own feet wobbly from the one too many cocktails I’d had to numb my pain. He took my hand in his and pulled me down to his lap. His eyes were clearer than I expected, and he stroked a path on my cheek.
“Where is my Park Avenue party girl?”
Lost.
“You don’t like the dour-faced dud I’ve become?” I teased, trying to inject humor into a melancholy conversation.
“Seriously, darling. I could tell you weren’t having a good time down there. What can I do to make it better?”
I laid my head on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his shaving cream, watching the pulse beat in his neck. “Well, for one thing, you could tell all the virgins to calm down.”
Charlie laughed. “So, you are jealous of their spritely ways?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Do you wish you were still a virgin?” His fingers trailed down my arm to my hand, which he lifted to his lips, taking me back to our spine-tingling first kiss in the elevator.
“Certainly not.” I laughed, very glad indeed to have put virginity behind me.
“Good. Because I don’t want to be married to a virgin.”
I laughed again and kissed him, my lips lingering on his until neither of us remembered the conversation at hand. Or the pain we’d tried to block, or, really, anything else, other than each other, our love, and the pleasure we could give one another.
In the morning, Charlie woke me before dawn. “Are you ready for the hunt, my petite huntress?”
“I am ready to ride,” I offered, with an impish shrug and an apologetic face. “Truly, that is the thing I look forward to most.”
He chuckled. “Tea first?”
“Yes, please.”
“I’ll have one brought up.” Charlie leapt from bed and rang the bell pull. A servant returned a short time later while I was brushing my hair, with a tray full of tea and toast.
“Thank you, darling.” I kissed his cheek as he poured me a cup.
Charlie had gifted me with a brand-new riding ensemble, made by the Savile Row tailors Huntsman. Breeches the color of oats, a white button-down dress shirt, and a starched white cravat I pinned in place with a diamond-and-sapphire brooch; just because one was hunting didn’t mean one couldn’t be fashionable. I topped the shirt with a yellow-and-blue-plaid vest, a matching neutral-colored tweed jacket, coffee-colored leather boots, and, to top it off, a black riding hat to keep my hair in place.
“There she is.” Charlie wandered in from his dressing room, looking dapper and charming in his own riding getup, which matched mine.
“There he is,” I said with a wink. “You look dashing.”
Charlie glanced over me with a rakish nod. “My God, you’re stunning. I never thought riding attire was so . . . enticing. We may not make it to the hunt.”
“Oh, but we must; you’ll have to chase me through the woods.” I breezed past him, putting an extra twitch in my step.
It had been nearly six weeks since . . . well, it was the magic number, apparently, after which the doctor had given us permission to resume making love. Last night had been the first time we’d made love since the birth and death of our baby, Annie Evelyn. I’d never realized how much I could forget when in his arms, when pleasure was the first order of business, forcing thoughts aside.
I wanted more of that. Someone had once told me that a woman could be judged by the depth and quality of her passion and her capacity for pleasure. I’d loved the line so much that I wrote it down on a piece of notepaper at the Ritz Hotel in London.
We made our way down to the stable, where the rest of the party gathered and mounted their horses. Charlie helped me onto mine, a dapple-gray mare, before straddling his own. The dogs were brought out by their trainers, already baying with anticipation. I wondered if Tilly and Wassie were up in our rooms baying themselves, sad they were missing out on the excitement of the hunt. I’d asked if they could come, but had been very sternly told no. Without the proper training, my silly doggies would likely be trampled by the horses in pursuit.
“What exactly are we hunting?” I asked.
“Stag.” Charlie adjusted his riding helmet.
“Ah.” Those majestic creatures that stood in the center of a field, ears pricked for sound, antlers winding up through the air like horned branches, tails twitching.
We rode out, spotting a creature some distance away. The stag’s muscles braced as the beast took in the scene, and then he was bounding away, with the dogs howling and giving chase. The riders rode behind them, horses leaping over ditches and fallen branches.
The men whooped and hollered, even the ladies joined in. I paused for a moment, taking it all in, and then I, too, was urging my horse forward. Thighs pinned to the sides of the mount, urging her this way and that over difficult terrain, clinging to her back. My hat blew off, floating and flying like a blackbird on the wintry air.
“Whoaaa . . .” I stilled the mare as those around me rode on. When they’d safely passed, I leapt off to retrieve my hat and pin it back in place. Wearing it was useless if it was only going to fly off again. So instead I tucked it into the satchel belted to my saddle and climbed back up. I’d not realized how cold my legs were until the warmth of the horse’s body settled back into mine.
There was not a soul in sight. The baying of the dogs and the hollering of the hunters was a distant sound. I closed my eyes, drawing the country air in deeply through my nose, and letting it back out slowly. When was the last time I’d felt so at peace? So unconstrained? The heaviness of my sorrows ebbed a fraction. Still thick and heavy in my veins, but at least every breath wasn’t a deep, scorching ache.
The mount stomped beneath me, puffs of steam shooting from her nostrils; irritated, maybe, that I’d not urged her back into pursuit.
“Shall we go, then?” I asked her, leaning forward and running my gloved hand over her neck, feeling the heat of her muscles even through the leather. The mare’s ears flicked back, listening.
I clucked my tongue and squeezed my legs until she was galloping across the moors again, chasing the sound of the hunt, the wind at our back.
* * *
The debutantes followed us to Cecil Beaton’s house party a week later. But fortunately they did not tag along to our mutual acquaintance Winn’s house, though I wished they had in the end. Winn was not as much of a bore as his wife, Kitty, whom I was coming to dislike quite a bit. At least the debs would have given me some entertainment.
Kitty had a spiteful soul, glaring at everyone over the rim of her cup, without a nice word for anyone. Not only was she melancholic, putting a sour damper on the whole party’s mood, but quite stupid to boot, and her husband was a pompous jackass if I’d ever seen one. Every moment spent absent their company felt as if a dark cloud had lifted overhead.
Nostell Priory, which was their home for now, borrowed from a brother, was as frigid and gloomy as its mistress.
“If I had balls, I’d have frozen them off by now,” I murmured during dinner to Cecil, who laughed uproariously. I wish I could say I’d had a cocktail too many, but by that point I was so miserable in the house and with its hosts that I would have stood on the table and shouted my comment to the entire guest list.
“Oh, you do say the most unabashed things.” His cadence was melodic, drawing me in. “You might be my favorite American.”
I grinned. I was in somewhat of a competition with myself to say the most outrageous things to Cecil, who never blushed like the rest of London society. Uttering funny phrases kept me from the horror threatening to take over when I’d learned that a maid had been killed outside our guest-bedroom door the day before we arrived and was likely haunting the house as we spoke. The creaks and rattles of the old place were for certain desperate souls in search of their next victim.
Thank God, the servant who’d done the murdering had been arrested.
Following one unpleasant situation after another, I was ready for the socializing to be done. Kitty wouldn’t quit being an obnoxious braggart. Portia—who thought she was going to be the next Lady Derby—was rudely, and deservedly, told off by Noël Coward for interrupting as if she were more important than everyone else. Because I was American, and had married a lord, I was doubly disliked. And the icing on that disappointing cake was that I lost my diamond-and-sapphire brooch—a wedding gift—which we’d not had time to insure.
The only interesting thing that happened was learning that one of my friends lived with both her husband and her lover. The situation was reminiscent of Georgianna, the eighteenth-century Duchess of Devonshire, my husband’s great-times-something-grandmother, who’d lived with her husband and his lover at Chatsworth a couple of centuries ago.
Anyone who said that British society was boring compared to the lights of New York City had not been stuck in an endless loop of house parties with the likes of these Bright Young Things–turned–middle-aged.
The one soothing balm for all of it was that I was getting to spend more time with Anne, Charlie’s sister, whom I adored.
“Will you be at Chatsworth over Christmas?” Anne asked.
I glanced at Charlie, who pretended not to listen. I’d initially agreed to remain in England, but now I was beyond finished with socializing and longed for the quiet of our Irish countryside. “I don’t think so. We’ve had the castle outfitted with bathrooms, and I believe my brother, Freddie, is going to join us there with his wife.”
As I said it, I realized how much I really did long for the wide-open moors of the Waterford countryside, dotted with sheep. The lazy strolls, the wee goats. It wasn’t purely the need to distance myself from these pretentious idiots, but also the need for the peace I found there. That peace that was missing here, except when I was on a hunt, not forced into mundane conversation.
“Perhaps I’ll have to join you.” Anne angled closer, and I caught only a hint of her sweet perfume. She didn’t douse herself in it as did some of the other ladies present. “To be at Lismore Castle and have real luxurious plumbing sounds like a dream.”
“You and Henry and the children would be welcome anytime.” And I meant it. Surprisingly, thinking about Timmy and Pippa, Anne’s children, only made me smile, rather than weep for my own lost daughter.
Anne grasped my hand in hers, our gold rings clicking together, and I squeezed back. “I’m so glad Charlie found you, Delly. You really are a gem.”
“I’m the lucky one.” I glanced back at my husband, seeing the corner of his lip turn up at hearing me say that. “He makes me happy.”
And it was true. Despite our great loss, there was no one else I’d want by my side. No one else I trusted like I trusted Charlie.
We were going to get through this. We were going to be okay. And there would be other babies.
Chapter Eighteen
Violet
The Limelight
Spotted out of mourning and rejoining the London social circuit was Lady Charles Cavendish, along with her handsome, willowy husband. Despite her time away from the stage, it would appear that Lady Charles, formerly Adele Astaire, has not lost her flair for dance, or her enthusiasm for a good club. Neither would it seem has Lord Charles, who was spied stumbling from Ciro’s after a night on the town with Prince George and Princess Marina of Greece.
July 9, 1934
Violet closed her eyes and turned her face up to the sun, leaning back, her fingers spread in the warm blades of grass. Between shifts, she came to the park to lounge. To breathe. Today was no different. Well, maybe slightly different. Set on the ground beside her was a luxury she’d splurged on for this auspicious occasion—her thirtieth birthday—a cake.
She was alone, the small tin of butter cake untouched.
Thirty had always seemed so far away. Especially when she’d told herself that if she wasn’t a wildly successful stage actress by thirty she’d settle down and marry. Of course, there was no one to choose from.
Every man she’d made a connection with she’d pushed away. And now she was the sole caretaker of her sister, a position she wouldn’t give up for the world, and she had no regrets. But it did mean she’d likely not make good on her promise to herself. At least her mother wasn’t around to see her complete failure.
Five years had passed in a flash. Like turning the first page in a novel, only to find “The End.” For the past five years, she’d been living on that empty last page.
There’d been no shows onstage. No performing. In fact, she’d gone back to serving cocktails in the theatre boxes during the shows at the Winter Garden. She was a has-been, a failure. Relegated to watching as the world turned, rather than being an active part of it. Violet loved her sister fiercely, but that didn’t mean she didn’t sometimes wonder what might have been.
In the decade since she’d left home, much had changed, just as much had stayed the same.
At nearly eighteen, Pris was grown-up enough to have a job at Foyles Bookshop.
Like a lot of things in her life, Violet had Adele to thank for Pris’s love of books. Having spent so much time over the past decade with Adele and her literary friends, Violet had received more than one book, which she’d then gifted to Pris. To pass the time and reconnect after the loss of their mother, Violet and Pris had spent many evenings reading together, by the light of a slowly burning candle to save on electricity.
Living their lives in the pages of these books had been as much of an escape for Violet as it had been for Pris.
And, it turned out, one that led her sister to employment other than in a factory or washing clothes for strangers. A blessing it was, when books saved lives.
“There you are.” Pris flounced down to the grassy patch that Violet had commandeered, a bottle in her hand.
“What’s that?” Violet asked, pointing at the glass that shimmered in the summer sun.
“Coca-Cola.”
Violet grinned. If her sister had a vice, it was cola. Violet was glad it wasn’t something worse, like liquor. Most of the eighteen-year-olds in the East End were imbibing. After all, they said that spirits were only raised by consuming spirits.
“Well, shall we share the cola with the cake?” Violet tapped the tin.
Pris broke out into a wide grin, the kind that peeled back the years and brought out all sorts of happy memories. “Yes. But first I shall sing for you. No birthday is complete without.”
Violet dropped back, lying in the grass with her hands covering her face. “Please don’t.”
Pris laughed, then grew silent for a minute.
“What is it?” Violet uncovered her eyes as she sat up, worried at the serious countenance of her sister, who was often quite silly.
Pris’s celebratory smile waned, her eyes misty. “Just missing those who should be here with us celebrating.”
Violet touched her sister’s arm, then tugged her in for a hug. Hugs had been given out in abundance over the years, the best comfort they could provide each other. Only now they were the same height, and Pris didn’t fold in so easily. “Me, too.”
Pris tucked her head against Violet’s shoulder with a sigh. She smelled like sunshine and hope.
Swiping at her tears, Pris shifted away, a smile of apology on her lips. “I’m sorry to be so blubbery on your birthday.”
“For good reason. I’ll not hold your grief against you.” The truth was that the pain of losing people never faded; people merely learned to handle it better, made a conscious choice to seize the day. Violet held the glass bottle of cola in the air. “To those we’ve loved and lost. May we meet them again one day.”
“But not too soon,” Pris added, bumping her shoulder into Violet’s.
“No, definitely not too soon.” They each took a sip of the cola, and then Violet opened the tin, breaking off a piece of the cake and handing it to her sister.
They chewed in silence, Violet lost in her thoughts.
