Chapter 17

AT MR. GOLDMAN’S CASTLE, SOMEWHERE UP THE COAST FROM LOS ANGELES

AUGUST 3

Belinda dropped her train case and rushed toward me, flinging out her arms. “Georgie, darling. What a lovely, lovely surprise. Fancy meeting you of all people here.”

She looked back at Mrs. Goldman as she kissed my cheeks. “This is my oldest and dearest friend in the world. Lady Georgiana, you know. Cousin to His Majesty the king. I’d heard that you were in Los Angeles but I had no idea . . .” She looked around the group, beaming. “And your dear mama, and good heavens—there’s Darcy too. It’s like a family reunion.”

Mr. Goldman was looking bemused and for once speechless. “Let me get this straight. This kid is another Tudor relation? Did they breed like rabbits?”

“The British aristocratic families are all related to each other in some way,” I said, although I was fairly sure that Belinda was in no way linked to the Tudors. I was giving her full marks for her acting ability. She knew very well that we were with Mr. Goldman and that the film was about the Tudors. “This is Miss Warburton-Stoke. Belinda and I were at school together.”

Belinda turned the full force of her charm on Cy Goldman. “How do you do,” she said, “and how kind of you to include me at this lovely, lovely place.”

Of course then he could hardly say that he didn’t want to include her. He scratched his head. “Where are we going to put these people, Ronnie?” he asked.

“We can put Mr. Chaplin in the other poolside suite, if Miss Brightwell’s not using it,” Ronnie said. “And we can have Maria open up Trianon for Miss Kindell and the young English lady. Unless you’d like your new protégé to sleep in the big house, Mrs. Goldman?”

“Barbara can sleep in the big house with us,” Mrs. Goldman said firmly. “I want to have her close by, just in case I need her.”

“I have an extra bed in my room. Belinda can share with me,” I said, smiling sweetly at her. “It will be just like old times at school.” Belinda opened her mouth to protest but then decided not to. “Thanks, Georgie,” she said.

“Well, that’s settled then,” Cy said. “You’d all better have a drink. And to what do I owe this honor, Helen?”

“I need permission to come to my own house now, do I?” She faced him defiantly.

“No, but since you haven’t been here in years I thought you weren’t interested.”

“I heard you bought a chapel from a Spanish convent and you’re having it shipped over here, brick by brick,” she said. “I wanted to see for myself.”

“It’s not here yet,” he said.

“So where are you going to put it?”

“It’s going to be my new bathhouse for the pool. Imagine taking a shower with all those saints looking down from stained glass windows.”

I caught Charlie Chaplin’s eye and he winked. I was beginning to like him in spite of the rumors. Belinda had returned to the group with her cocktail. She looked around. I saw her appraising Juan, then her gaze fixed on Craig.

“My goodness. That can’t be Craig Hart, can it?” she said breathlessly and she made a beeline for him. “I’d recognize you anywhere, Mr. Hart. I’m such a big fan. I loved you as a pirate in your last film.”

“Well, thank you very much, little lady,” Craig said. “What was your name again?”

“Belinda,” she said, gazing up at him adoringly. It was lucky that I really had no interest in being Craig Hart’s next conquest. I moved over to Darcy.

“Well, that’s a turnup for the books. What’s she doing here?” he whispered. “Did you invite her?”

“Of course not. I wrote to her from New York and told her about Mr. Goldman and the film. She must have taken the next boat. You know Belinda. She never misses a good opportunity. Perhaps she now wants to be a costume designer for the movies. She’d be good, I think.”

“I think she’d rather catch a rich film star,” Darcy muttered behind his cocktail glass. “Look at her turning on the charm.”

The fog was now rolling in from the ocean and with it a chill breeze. Stella shivered and hauled herself out of the pool. “I’m cold, Cy. Let’s go inside.” She put on a toweling robe and slippers.

I didn’t miss the daggers look that shot from Mrs. Goldman. So she was all too aware of Stella Brightwell’s role in his life. I wondered what she must think about having his mistress with him so openly.

“That’s right,” Cy said. “I promised these people a tour of the house. Then these young British aristocrats can tell me if it’s better than their stately homes. It damned well better be, the money I’ve spent on it.” He clapped his hands. “Come on, then. Follow me. House tour coming up.”

He led us up the long flight of marble steps and opened a massive studded oak front door. We stepped into the cool darkness of an entrance hall two stories high. Weapons decorated the walls and the vaulted ceiling was hung with ancient banners. The whole effect reminded me sharply of Castle Rannoch.

“Follow me,” Cy said. Our footsteps echoed from the high ceiling as we crossed that foyer. On either side there were alcoves, decorated with classical statues that really didn’t go with the weapons hanging above them. Then Cy pushed open a door and we entered a sitting room, rather like the one I had left at Kingsdowne Place, with a great marble fireplace at its center.

“Recognize this?” Cy said with a triumphant grin. “It came from one of your British houses. Lord something or other. You should have seen the job they had getting it up the hill. Took a team of oxen to pull it.”

One magnificent room after another followed. There were paintings on oak-paneled walls, statues in corners, suits of armor, archways, beamed ceilings. . . . And the interesting thing was that none of it really belonged together, almost like items laid out ready for an auction. It was as Mummy had said, a Gothic fantasy. Cy was beaming like a proud child. “Designed the whole thing myself,” he said. “Not bad for a boy who came to the States with nothing. Who was glad to get a job selling newspapers.”

“Cyrus,” Mrs. Goldman said in her strident voice. “So what about those other things that you told me you’d found in Spain? Didn’t I hear you’d bought candlesticks? And an El Greco?”

“So you’re suddenly interested in antiques? Or did you hear how much they’re worth?” He looked back at her, almost gloating in his expression. “I got them for a steal, if you’re worried about how much I paid—this convent had no idea what they were. That El Greco was hanging behind a side altar in their chapel. Their roof was leaking and their plumbing wasn’t working and they were happy to get those things fixed. But you wait until you see them, Helen. Exquisite.”

He quickened his pace, led us into a narrow side hall. I gasped as I saw a figure looming over me with an ax raised. Then I realized it was only another suit of armor. “Watch out for that guy,” Cy called jovially. “He’s my guard. He dispatches people I don’t like.” He went ahead and opened a door at the end. “My prize possession,” he said. “My library.”

“Prize possession. That’s rich. You don’t even like reading,” Mrs. Goldman said.

“I like books. I like the look and smell of old books,” he said. “Do you know who owned this library before me? Another English lord. Probably one of your relations.” (He looked at me, then Darcy.) “He was having financial troubles, so I bought the whole thing, lock, stock and barrel. Had the shelves shipped over here and reassembled just as it was. I even found windows from an old country house in England.”

I noticed then that the windows had been set into alcoves, to give the impression of thick castle walls, I supposed. Each of the alcoves was hung with heavy red drapes. The windows were clearly very old, maybe even Tudor—small panes of imperfect glass between heavy oak frames.

“There. That’s the El Greco,” Cy said, drawing our attention away from the windows and the stunning view beyond. He went over to a small painting now propped up against one of the shelves. It was a Madonna and child with the painter’s characteristic long faces and elongated hands. It was done in muted reds and blues and the woman looked incredibly sad, but it was lovely in its own way.

“Looks rather dreary to me,” Mrs. Goldman said. “Couldn’t you have found something more cheerful?”

“You wait until you find out what it’s worth, honey. Then you’ll suddenly decide it’s lovely and you have to have it in your living room in New York to show to the Hadassah ladies.”

“I don’t think they’d take kindly to a Madonna and child,” she said. “Even if they are by El Greco.”

Cy put down the painting then moved over to the polished library table. “I thought I might put the candlesticks in here on the table so I can enjoy them when I’m working,” Mr. Goldman said. A plain wooden case now lay on it. He opened this and took out a candlestick. There was a gasp from the group. It was amazing—a little too ornate for my taste but brilliant nonetheless. It was about eighteen inches high, and around its base was a complete country scene all in gold, with young girls dancing among trees. Curled garlands of golden flowers rose up its sides. And dotted everywhere were precious stones—ruby and emerald centers for the flowers, diamonds, sapphires, topaz, and lapis adorned the girls and the trees, all sparkling in the light of the chandelier that hung from the ceiling.

“Pretty, huh?” He held it up to us.

“I hope you’ve got it properly insured,” Helen Goldman said. “That thing’s worth a fortune.”

“There’s a pair of them, Helen. But don’t worry. I’ll get them insured. Besides, who can break into this place?” Cy said. “I’ll have the fence electrified if you’re worried.” He put the candlestick back in its case and closed the lid. “Now let’s go and see where we’re going to hang the El Greco. If I put it next to the Goya it will be overshadowed. It needs just the right lighting.”

We followed him out of the library. “You’re like a little boy.” Helen drew level with him now. “Can’t get enough new toys, can you? Well, don’t forget that it’s my money too that you’re wasting like this.”

“There’s plenty more where that came from,” he said, “and if you don’t like the way I live you can always divorce me, you know.”

“You don’t want a divorce,” she said. “You wouldn’t want to pay all that alimony and you know I’d drag all the sordid details of you and your mistresses through the courts. Believe me.”

“Oh, I do believe you. You always did have a vindictive streak,” he said.

“I’m sure the newspapers would love to read about you and dear Stella—or are you looking to move on to someone a little younger, perhaps? You’re not wearing well around the edges, Stella honey. I’d say this is your last hurrah as a movie star.”

“You’re a bitch, Helen, did anyone tell you that?” Stella said.

“Frequently. And I enjoy it. It’s one of my few pleasures since my husband abandoned me.”

“I abandoned you?” Cy demanded. “I like that. Who wanted her own bedroom from day one? And kept the door locked?”

“You always were too demanding. You should have given me more time. Like a great ape, you were.”

The rest of us were trapped in the corridor with them, absolutely squirming with embarrassment. In England such a scene would never have happened. Fighting in public was just not done among our sort of people. It was Charlie Chaplin who took control. “I think we’ll go change for dinner and leave you to it, Cy,” he said. “I enjoy a prizefight as much as anyone, but I hate seeing good antiques get smashed. Come on, gang.”

We followed him back down the hallway and out into the mist that had risen from the Pacific Ocean to take over the landscape. Trees were now blurred and indistinct shapes.

“Where on earth are we going?” Belinda asked.

“We have one of the guest cottages,” I said. “Look. Down there in the trees.”

“We have to walk back here in the dark?” Belinda said.

“I agree,” Mummy said, “and with the wild animals too.”

“Wild animals. That’s funny.” Belinda laughed.

“You didn’t see any on your way up here?” Mummy said. “Those woods are teeming with giraffes and zebras and God knows what.”

Belinda peered into the trees, still not sure if we were pulling her leg. “And there may be lions. We haven’t seen them yet,” I added, still feeling rather cross with her. “What are you doing here, Belinda? You really have a nerve.”

“Darling, I got sacked from Harrods when this obnoxious Frenchwoman told my boss that I wasn’t really French. And your postcard arrived the same day. I said to myself it must be fate, so I used my last paycheck to buy a ticket. And another piece of absolute luck—I met Mrs. Goldman on the train. Helped her with her case, actually. I had no idea who she was until she told me. So it really had to be fate, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but what do you want to do here?”

“I told Mrs. Goldman I was a costume designer. Well, I could be, easily. You have to admit I have a flair.”

“Yes, you do.”

She glanced around, then pulled me closer to her. “But now I’m thinking I might have found my sugar daddy instead. Isn’t Craig Hart divine? Did you see how attentive he was to me? Is he married?”

“Not at the moment, I don’t think. But he’s fickle.”

“He was pursuing Georgie until you arrived,” Mummy said. “I can’t think why.”

“He even kissed me last night,” I said with a grin. “Darcy saw and was not amused.”

“And what’s Darcy doing here then? And isn’t that Algie Broxley-Whatsit? What a little creep he always was—he groped one at hunt balls.”

“They are doing exactly the same thing as you, Belinda dear,” Mummy said. “Using my fame to get themselves a job on a film.”

“How screamingly funny.” Belinda laughed loudly. There was a stirring in the bushes and some kind of antelope bounded out. “Ye gods,” Belinda said. “You weren’t joking about the animals.”

While we dressed for dinner I told Belinda about Queenie.

“Well rid of her, darling. She was a millstone around your neck,” Belinda said. “Now, if Darcy plays his cards right and becomes a film star you’ll be able to marry him and afford a real maid.”

I was surprised at the jolt of horror I felt as she said this. Did I want my future husband to be a film star? I knew it would make him a lot of money, but it would mean a life very different from the one I had visualized. And women throwing themselves at him. Darcy was only human and I’d seen the way Stella was already ogling him.

“Tell me, Georgie,” Belinda went on. “Do you think I might really have a chance with Craig Hart?”

“For one night, maybe. Isn’t that how film stars behave? He was kissing me yesterday.”

“But when he experiences the incredible sex I have to offer, isn’t it possible that he might want an aristocratic English wife?”

“But you don’t even know him. He may be horrible under the façade. He may have tantrums and act like a spoiled little boy.”

She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. He’d have enough money to keep me happy.”

I sat on my bed and looked up at her. She already looked older than me. “Is that what you really want, Belinda? Just lots of money, no matter how you get it?”

“Money and sex, darling. That’s about it.”

“What about love?”

She looked out of the window. “I don’t think I’m destined for love,” she said. Then she peered harder. “What do you think that Stella Brightwell is doing among the trees? Feeding the animals?”

I went over to join her. It was hard to see through the fog in the fading light, but it really did look like Stella Brightwell, with something dark draped around her shoulders, moving quickly through the trees. I wondered if she’d arranged to meet Juan, perhaps. Or if she was running away in a huff after that tiff in the corridor. In which case Mr. Goldman was not pursuing her.