They drove to Eleanor’s house in strained silence. Chelsea thought back to last night and agonized that, once again, they’d failed to talk. She was responsible for her share of the silence between them, but she wouldn’t have shut down if Bailey hadn’t done the same.
They were approaching the front door when they heard music floating outside.
“Guess we’ll find her out back,” Chelsea said. She stuttered to a stop when they got to the backyard. She hesitated to intrude on a private moment. Eleanor was dancing to a slow tune, her eyes closed, one hand held up high, the other low as if she were in the arms of her lover.
Chelsea was entranced. So much so, she almost didn’t realize Bailey had cleared her throat until Eleanor stopped and turned to face them.
“Caught me reminiscing.” She switched off the CD player.
“You dance beautifully,” Chelsea said, as they sat down at the table.
“Poo.” Eleanor gave a dismissive wave. “My Daphne. Now there was a woman who could dance. She and Gordon were quite the pair when they’d dance at the studio functions. And on film, of course.”
“But how about the two of you?” Bailey asked. She poured coffee into their mugs and tea into Eleanor’s cup.
“Thank you, dear. The two of us dancing? With the press of her body against mine and the rhythm of the music pulsing through my veins? It was magic. God, I miss her.”
A breeze rustled through the trees, carrying with it a soft murmuring that, to Chelsea’s ears, sounded like unintelligible, whispered words. A chill coursed through her. Certain it had been her imagination, she glanced over at Bailey whose face had paled.
“You weren’t hearing things, Chelsea,” Eleanor said. “Daphne’s spoken to me a few times since she left.”
If the sensation hadn’t stirred Chelsea’s awareness, she’d have thought Eleanor had gone off the deep end. Chelsea rubbed her hands over her arms, trying to rid them of the goose bumps. “H-how often?”
“The first night after she died, she visited me in our bedroom. I’d cried myself into a fitful sleep and awakened, sobbing, in the middle of the night. I felt a light touch on my hand and a whispered, ‘I’m here, darling. I’ll never leave you.’ At first, I thought I was losing my mind. Then a warmth enveloped my body, and her love surrounded me.” Another breeze blew gently across the patio.
“But today, we’re going to hear about the darkest days of our relationship.” She pushed the diary to Chelsea. “Why don’t you read for us? Bailey can pick up later.”
“Where are we starting today?” Chelsea asked as she took the diary.
“We’re jumping to 1954. I told you from the beginning that we’d hit highlights. This is one of the most important periods of our lives together.”
Chelsea opened the diary. “Thursday, 25 March 1954. The weather has been cool these past couple of weeks, but I still worked in the garden every day…”
* * *
As I knelt in the soft, wet dirt, weeding and pruning, memories of my family’s garden in England flooded over me. I hadn’t had much contact with my father or my brothers these past two years. My relationship with Daphne seemed to consume all my time. I tried not to contemplate where I was and who I was with, frightened that if I did so, everything would vanish around me like the screen fading to black after the closing credits.
Daphne appreciated my love for the garden, almost amused that I didn’t feel the need for a gardener to tend to the grounds as long as I was there. A warm air blew in and rippled the scarf tied around my head.
Daphne was at the studio filming a scene in her latest romance with Gordon. After that night in the limousine, Gordon and I had become fast friends—this despite the night he’d tried to warn Daphne of my presence in the mansion. I had to smile as I remembered the jealousy I’d felt at the premiere of The Brave Few, seeing Daphne and Gordon together.
Caught up in my work, I didn’t realise for a moment that the intercom near the back door was buzzing. It connected to the guardhouse out front. Frequently, we spent our time in the backyard as we enjoyed walks through the gardens. The intercom came in handy during those times.
I reached the intercom and punched the button. “Yes, Dorian?”
“Miss Burnett, there is a gentleman here to see Miss DeMonet. He said he works with her agent, Victor Shannon, and has something he needs to discuss with her. I told him she was at the studio, but he insisted he speak with you.” His voice sounded tight and strained.
“Send him back.” I wondered why someone who worked with Daphne’s agent would make an appearance here. I wiped my hands on the rag tucked in the back pocket of my jeans. Glancing down at the front of my shirt and my knees, I winced. Wet splotches of dirt adorned my clothing. I feared I was about to make a poor impression.
A man in a black suit and tie approached me. He had a pasty face that almost matched the colour of his starched-white shirt.
His gaze dropped to my dirty jeans and top. He held out his hand. “Miss Burnett, I’m Fred Martin, a reporter with the Tinseltown Tattler.”
I had taken his hand but dropped it immediately once he identified himself. His palm was cold and clammy, and I felt the sudden need to wipe my hand again.
“I’d like to speak with Miss DeMonet, but I understand she’s at the studio. Do you know when she might be returning home?”
“No. You have no right to be here, and you need to leave.”
Without any further preamble, he asked, “What is the nature of your relationship with Miss DeMonet?”
My stomach lurched. “I’m a good friend.”
“A good friend?” Martin smirked. “As a good friend, do you often work in her garden? Or do you live here with her?”
“I… well, I…”
Daphne’s husky voice interrupted me from behind. “Miss Burnett is a good friend and my private secretary. She also works in the garden because it’s something she enjoys doing, not because I’ve asked her to do so.” She strode over to where we stood, her face an ugly red. I’d seen her this way only one other time when she’d thrown a drunken actor out of our home. He’d made a pass at me during one of our parties. “I’m sorry I wasn’t available earlier, but I just finished filming for the day. Who are you and what are you doing on my private property?” I noticed she never answered his question as to if I lived there. I didn’t think it escaped Martin’s attention, either.
“I’m Fred Martin with the Tinseltown Tattler.”
The colour drained from Daphne’s face.
“I see you’ve heard of me,” Martin said with a triumphant expression.
“I’ve heard of you. I also know how you’ve ruined the lives of many of my friends.” Although Daphne appeared to put up a brave front, her hands trembled as she pushed back a lock of wind-blown hair.
“Any lives that have been ruined, as you put it, were the sole fault of those individuals whom I’ve investigated.” Martin’s voice was devoid of emotion, and his speech sounded well-rehearsed. “You still haven’t answered my question about Miss Burnett. Does she live in your home?”
“This is where I ask you to please leave. I need to call my attorney.”
“Miss DeMonet, you’re only making this more difficult—”
“Please leave,” Daphne repeated.
Martin stared at her. The tension crackled around us like static air during a thunderstorm. “Fine. We’ll do it the hard way. I’m not going to let this drop.” His gaze shifted over to me as he handed his card to Daphne. “Call me.”
Daphne took the card. He strolled down the pathway around the house as if he’d lived there for years.
“Daphne, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. He told Dorian he worked with your agent. I told him he had to leave once I knew who he was.”
She gave me a tight smile, her jaws still clenched in anger. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Ellie. You know how these people are and how they operate. They’re out for blood and don’t care who they hurt in the process. Listen, why don’t you go back to gardening? I’ll call my lawyer and Victor.”
Victor Shannon was a man I despised. Daphne, on the other hand, trusted him with her life—or at least her career. He knew of her sexual preferences and arranged for Gordon to accompany her as often as possible, wherever he thought cameras might be present. Me, he tolerated. He’d been used to Daphne’s dalliances and one-night stands, but I was certain he saw me as a liability, or at the very least, a constant threat to Daphne’s privacy.
Daphne didn’t wait for my response but pivoted on her heel and hurried into the house. Kneeling again to weed the daffodils, I thought of the volatile times we lived in. Beginning in 1947, the House Committee on Un-American Activities had called actors, actresses, screenwriters, and directors to Washington, D.C., and forced them to testify about their colleagues and their supposed communist leanings. If they refused, they were cited for contempt of Congress and ultimately blacklisted. And now scandal sheets like the Tinseltown Tattler fed off the prevalent fear and tried to expose suspected homosexual actors and actresses. It had been agony for Daphne to sit by and watch her friends victimised by a witch hunt. Now the witch hunt had arrived at our door.
Monday, 29 March 1954. Daphne had left for her attorney, Ralph Edmonton’s, office. Victor was to join them to discuss how to proceed. I wanted to be with her, but I knew that was impossible. I was the main reason the reporter had asked to see her.
The front door slammed. I was sitting in the den in a feeble attempt to read a magazine, but I’d read the same paragraph five times without retaining any of the content.
Around the corner, Daphne went to the bar and banged around awhile. I heard ice dropping into a glass.
“Daph? I’m in here.”
She entered the den. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her makeup, which usually was impeccable, had smeared. She tilted her head back and downed the drink. She set the glass on the table and sat beside me on the sofa.
“You look like you’ve been through the wringer,” I said.
“I’ve never been so humiliated, Ellie. This Martin contacted Victor and asked about my relationships with women I can’t even remember. Someone had to have talked. I know how this works. They browbeat someone else into giving up a friend. I don’t know who it was, but they knew enough about me to question my sexuality. And they asked about you.” Daphne’s lost and defeated expression frightened me.
“What are you going to do?”
Her chin trembled. “This is the part that’s so hard for me to tell you.”
I reached for her hand. “Daphne, look at me.”
She raised her head. Her dark eyes pooled with tears. “I… I have to get married.”
I felt as though someone had sucked all the air out of the room. I struggled to breathe. “What do you mean?” I didn’t recognise my voice as my own.
“Victor thinks if I’m married, it’ll quell this talk about me being a homosexual. People are naïve enough to think that as long as a couple’s married, there’s no possibility one of them could be a homosexual.”
I felt I was about to be sick but waited for her to continue.
“He thinks Gordon would be the perfect one for me to marry. It would help both of us stay off their radar. Especially since we’ve already been linked romantically.”
“But… but what about me? What about us?”
Daphne squeezed my hand. “We’ll still be together, darling. You won’t be able to live in the house, but we can get you an apartment nearby. I’ll come there to stay with you at night, or you can come here. The only difference is that, legally, your address will change.”
“And you agreed to this?” The reality of the situation hit me full force then.
“Don’t you see? I have to.”
I wrenched my hand out of hers. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
“Please don’t be this way. I’ll never be able to work again if I don’t go through with the marriage. When everything eventually blows over—and it will, I’m certain of it—you and I can go back to how we are now.”
I rose and stared down at her. Did I even know the woman sitting there? “Our relationship will be a lie.”
She stood up. “No, it won’t. I still love you, Ellie.” She reached to touch my face, but I stepped back. Her expression changed to one of hurt. “Don’t pull away. Please.”
“Me? You’re telling me not to pull away? I’m not the one who’s talking of marrying a man. And a man who’s also homosexual at that. You’re both hypocrites.”
“No, we’re both realists. We’re doing what has to be done. You need to remember where I get my pay cheque. The studio and every gaffer, cameraman, and electrician—all of the employees—depend on Gordon and me to keep those box office receipts rolling in. You know that as well as I.”
“I’ll tell you what I do know, Daphne. It’s that it’s quite obvious your career means more to you than our relationship.”
Her face flushed. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair? Oh, that’s bloody rich.” I thought of something else. “And your fans. You can’t live without them, can you?”
She looked away, which gave me my answer.
I sucked in a breath. “Your career. Your fans. Thank you, Daphne. Thank you for letting me know where I fall in the pecking order.”
She took a step toward me and held out her hand in a beseeching gesture. “Please be reasonable.”
“Don’t even talk to me about being reasonable. I will not be your concubine.”
“You know damn well that’s not how it would be.”
“Then what exactly would you label it? You want to put me up in an apartment while you play house with Gordon. You want me at your beck and call. That is the very definition of a concubine.”
Daphne folded her arms across her chest. “Now, you’re just being ridiculous.”
I took in her defiant pose and the stubborn set of her jaw… and I knew I couldn’t stay.
“I’m going home.” I started for the living room.
“What do you mean you’re going home?” Her footsteps followed close behind.
“I mean just that. You and Gordon can live out your idyllic fake marriage in your home, but I don’t have to watch it. I’ll make it easy for you. I’ll go back to England.”
Her voice shook. “You can’t mean that, Ellie.”
“Watch me.” I stomped upstairs. Daphne continued to follow me as I hurried down the hallway and into our bedroom. I flung the closet door open and pulled down my suitcase. I threw it on the mattress and haphazardly tossed clothes into it.
She grabbed my hands as I reached for more hangers. “You can’t do this.”
“I can, and I am. If you think I can live under these conditions, you’re delusional. Let go of me. Now.”
She released my wrists. It didn’t take long to finish packing; I had no intention of taking all the dresses she had bought me. I snapped the suitcase shut and carried it down the hallway. Daphne grabbed it from behind, causing me to stumble.
“What will I do without you?” she sobbed. She held onto the suitcase as if for dear life.
“You’ll survive like you always have, Daphne. That’s what you do. I only hope for your sake Gordon and your fans keep you warm at night.” I tore the suitcase from her grip and marched downstairs. “Can you ask Perkins to take me to the airport? Or do I need to call a cab?”
“Ellie, please…”
“Fine. I’ll call a cab.” I went to the phone and put my hand on the receiver. She reached from behind and placed her hand over mine.
“I’ll ask Perkins to take you.”
Perkins pulled the limousine around in record time. He took my suitcase, stored it in the trunk, and opened the back door for me, avoiding eye contact.
Daphne rushed forward and flung herself on my neck. “I love you.”
I stood limp in her arms. “I love you, too, Daphne. But I love myself enough to know I can’t stay.”
I withdrew from her embrace and slid into the backseat. Perkins shut the door. Daphne held one hand to her mouth and the other flat against the glass of the window. Her sobs penetrated the well-insulated car and mixed with my own. Perkins didn’t linger long.
As we drove away, I resisted the urge to look back at her one last time. My heart couldn’t take it.