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THE FORMALITY IN THE house extended into Cora’s bedroom. The room might lack the animal print upholstery and gold and silver detailing favored by Hollywood’s elite, but the domed canopy bed and the floral curtains draped upon it must be expensive. Matching curtains lined the windows, though these were topped with stiff pelmets. The busy pattern seemed at odds with the increasingly white landscape outside.
Cora strode to the window.
The snow was positively racing downward, as if each flake had decided to enter the Grand Prix. Cold air hurtled through cracks in the aged windowpane, and she glanced longingly at the large stone fireplace that dominated one wall. A thick Oriental screen was placed in front of the hearth, presumably to protect from any wayward sparks. Not that any sparks were happening now; the room was chilly. She moved toward the bed, eyeing the abundant compilation of coverlets, bedspreads, quilts, and duvets with pleasure.
Perhaps she might rest.
Just for a bit.
Cora removed her shoes, sat down on the bed, and soon found her eyelids seeming to grow heavy. She lay down and pulled the covers about her.
And perhaps, just perhaps, she slept.
A knock sounded, and Cora jerked her torso up.
The door swung open.
Cora pushed away the covers. “Veronica?”
“It’s only me, miss,” a stern voice said. “The maid. One of them.”
Cora scrambled up, and the blanket lay crumpled around her legs.
A middle-aged woman scrutinized her. She wore a bulky black dress, the color not muted from no doubt frequent washings, and a crisp white apron. A lace cap perched on her head. The maid pointed to the silk rope that hung from the ceiling. “You should have rung for me.”
“I—”
“I’ll make a fire for you,” the maid said. “Even if these aren’t conventional hours.”
“That’s really not necessary,” Cora declared.
“Can’t have you sleeping under the covers with your afternoon dress on.”
Cora wouldn’t have referred to a dark blue frock as an afternoon dress, but clearly this was the sort of place where one changed for dinner, even if one were merely going downstairs, and not to some riveting new club or movie opening.
Another maid entered the room. Her uniform was every bit as meticulous, though she was younger than the other maid and wore rouge and lipstick. She stared at Cora.
Cora knew that look. She’d seen it from star-crazed fans.
“I can dress her,” the new maid blurted.
“I never thought you were eager to add more duties,” the first maid said.
“I am now.”
“Very well.”
Cora was glad when the first maid left the room. She’d resembled the school teacher who had taught Cora on the sets of movies, pulling her into a classroom with Veronica and some other child actors, whenever the adults were on break.
They’d studied arithmetic and reading, while the adults laughed and sipped cocktails.
Cora had had no desire to sip cocktails in those days, but she’d still been scared of the schoolteacher who’d seemed to work from the assumption that child actors were spoiled, even though unlike most other children, they all worked hard.
“I’m Gladys,” the new maid said.
“And I’m—”
“Cora Clarke.” Gladys’s eyes shimmered. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, miss. Now let’s get you dressed.”
Cora rose from the bed, still groggy from the hours of travel.
“I’ve seen every one of your films.”
“I hope you enjoyed them.”
“Oh, naturally. Seeing you tap dance on the ceiling. Really, too brilliant.”
Cora smiled.
Gladys glanced at Cora’s feet, perhaps half expecting her to burst into dance.
“Let me unpack for you,” Gladys said. “You must have all sorts of lovely gowns for dinner.”
“Well—”
Gladys whisked her clothes into cabinets and wardrobes. None of Cora’s clothing was French, and she didn’t have any tweed, two things that most likely encompassed the vast majority of the other women’s attire. Gladys eventually dressed Cora in her finest gown, murmuring something about how she needed to make a good impression.
Gladys gave her directions to the dining hall, and Cora strode downstairs, armed in her mint satin gown. Unfortunately, the balloon sleeves seemed a trifle outrageous, and the rest of the gown might have had an overabundance of ruffles.
Dining with movie stars was one thing, but it was quite another to dine with English aristocrats more than twice her age, who had a penchant for narrowing their eyes at her statements. Most likely her very accent was cause for amusement.
No matter.
Cora ignored the uncertainty coursing through her.
Voices sounded.
Good.
She must be near the dining room and she rounded the corner of the hallway. Unfortunately, the dining room was nowhere in sight.
Signor Palombi and the duchess were speaking in an alcove, and Cora hesitated.
Are they having a private conversation? But they’ve only just met...
Cora frowned, and some curiosity caused her to halt.
“I don’t like seeing you on your own here,” Signor Palombi said. “Not with that man. Come with me, Denisa.”
Cora was certain referring to a duchess he’d just met by her first name did not follow etiquette rules.
But the duchess did not seem offended by the man’s impertinence. No slap sounded. In fact, the space between them was very narrow, and they seemed almost to give each other a hug.
“I can’t. I wish I could follow you there,” the duchess said. “Spend the rest of my life with you, but I-I have commitments.”
Oh.
That sounded exactly as if they were having an affair.
Perhaps that was why the duke and duchess had seemed so cantankerous. They were consumed with their own worries, and Veronica should not dwell on their supposed disapproval.
“The child is grown,” Signor Palombi said.
The duchess smiled. “He’s married, but it feels...wrong.”
Cora stepped back. She refused to eavesdrop further; she’d listened to far too much as it was.
She crept quietly down the corridor until she eventually heard voices, and this time they did not belong to people in the midst of having illicit affairs.
Veronica, her husband, the duke and Lady Audrey were sipping martinis. Beyond them was an elaborately decked dining room table. No doubt they were waiting for the others to arrive.
Thankfully, Lady Audrey was deep in conversation with the duke. She wore a striking black dress that managed to radiate sophistication, if not, precisely, personality. Perhaps she confined her fondness for color to her art.
Cora entered the room.
The duke raised his eyebrows and glowered at her. “Ah, we’re only missing four people now. I shouldn’t wonder that my children keep requesting money: even the ability to tell time eludes them and their wives.”
“I’m here,” Lord Holt said quickly.
The duke lowered his bushy brows. “I suppose it’s just the ability to make conversation so your presence is known that eludes you.”
Lord Holt’s cheeks took on a shade of deep rose.
Mr. Ardingley entered the room. “Were you missing us, Father?”
“Just remarking on your tardiness,” the duke said.
“We’re here now.” Mr. Ardingley strode to a bar cart and poured himself a drink as his wife wheeled herself into the room.
She smoothed her forest green gown, running her hands over the drop waist. The sparseness of her thin shoulder straps was not quite hidden by the navy and green shawl draped about her. The lower half of her dress was composed of a variety of ruffles, and beads sparkled from each layer. No doubt the dress had been expensive at one time, but it was dreadfully out of fashion, and worn shoes peeked from the hem.
The duke frowned. “For the amount of time it took, I would have expected your wife to look at least somewhat glamorous.”
“She does,” Mr. Ardingley said.
“She’s been wearing that dress for the past ten years.” The duke subjected Mrs. Ardingley to a disdainful stare. “Is that your Christmas dress?”
“I’m sure it hasn’t been nearly that long.” Mrs. Ardingley raised her chin and kept her voice defiant, but the reddening of her skin, even underneath her substantial powder, impeded the effect. “Besides, I cannot walk. And this is comfortable.”
“Comfort is something sought by the weak,” the duke replied.
The duchess and Signor Palombi entered the dining room together, and Lord Holt’s knuckles tightened around his martini glass. He swallowed the remainder of his drink, and one of the footman scrambled to replace it.
The duchess wore a scarlet gown. The bias cut fabric, and the manner in which the silk hugged her body, made it obvious that unlike other women of her generation, she did not achieve her well-proportioned body through the aid of old-fashioned corsets. Rubies sparkled from her throat and wrists. Her sleeves were not puffed or in any manner billowing; she did not require any volume on her shoulders to create the impression of a dainty waist. The duchess’s waist was already slender, despite the cook’s undoubted effort over the past thirty years to place temptations before her.
“You look well, Ma,” Veronica called out cheerfully.
“She looks beautiful,” Signor Palombi said firmly.
“Let’s go in,” the duke said, not commenting on the Italian’s statement. Perhaps he was accustomed to his business partners musing over the attractiveness of his wife.
Signor Palombi offered Cora his arm. “Allow me.”
Cora took the man’s arm cautiously, pondering whether he was indeed the Duchess of Hawley’s lover. They settled around the dining room, and Cora took in the dark paneled walls, adorned with all manner of medieval weapons. Her eyes must have widened, for Mr. Ardingley winked.
She drew back and focused on the less intimidating aspects of the room. Sconces flickered golden light. The ceiling was painted a pale blue color that might have been intended to mimic the sky on a pretty day, since she’d heard that those were rare in England. So far, she hadn’t seen a blue sky since Arizona. Even New York had been devoid of them.
Footmen in glossy black attire stood behind them. The frequency of the footmen’s glances at her made it clear they knew her identity, and she stiffened.
“It’s so quiet in here,” Veronica said loudly. “We require music.”
The duchess frowned, managing to direct centuries of carefully cultivated aristocratic disapproval, but Veronica only laughed.
“You mustn’t look so cross,” she said. “I promise to not put anything too shocking on.”
“We don’t own a gramophone,” said the duchess.
“Oh, but I do,” Veronica said.
“Gramophones are more an indulgence for the servant class,” the duke said. “When one has heard the 1812 Overture played at the Royal Albert, one really cannot listen to big band music with all those ghastly brass instruments.”
“Unless one is tone deaf.” Lady Audrey sipped her glass of wine daintily. “Did I ever mention how truly interesting I thought your Broadway Bonanza of 1936 performance was, Veronica? I could swear your singing voice was much higher pitched in the film. A true soprano. How unexpected when your speaking voice is so deep.”
Veronica averted her eyes. She’d always despised that her voice had been dubbed in the film. Finally, she raised her chin. “Men find deep voices appealing. You may not know that.”
Lady Audrey flushed, but she retained a sweet tone. “I merely questioned that you had really used your own voice in the film.”
“Obviously, the director’s taste was questionable. My singing voice is outstanding.” Veronica tossed her hair.
Lady Audrey smirked. “Then perhaps you can provide the musical entertainment tonight.”
“My gramophone will do quite well. Not all of us listen to music as if we’re still scared of the French.”
“I’m not scared of any frogs.” The duke pounded his fist against the table.
“We know you’re not,” said the duchess. “Though perhaps you should be frightened by the Germans.”
“Fiddle-faddle,” the duke said, momentarily distracted when the footman switched the soup course for fish.
“A gramophone must be an unconventional item to take with you,” Mr. Ardingley said. “I think it’s splendid you brought one.”
“It’s for my work,” Veronica said. “I’m doing an adaption of Horror Most Dreadful, the radio play. I thought I should listen to the original.”
“How thrilling,” Mr. Ardingley said. “I’ve listened to that. Dear Katherine has quite a morbid fascination for the entire crime genre. Don’t you darling?”
Mrs. Ardingley shifted in her wheel chair. “Only when you place the Proust out of my reach.”
Cora had the impression Mrs. Ardingley did not want to enjoy anything that Veronica excelled at.
“So do you have a copy of the radio play with you?” Mr. Ardingley asked. “Perhaps we could listen to that after dinner.”
“Oh, how dull,” Lady Audrey said. “The most atrocious jazz music would be preferable.”
“I agree,” Lord Holt said. “Why listen to a version of a play that my darling wife will only perform so much better?”
Veronica beamed and blew him a kiss.
“That is the last moving picture you will be in, I hope,” the duke said.
Veronica straightened. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Dear Father,” Mr. Ardingley said. “They don’t call them moving pictures anymore. They’re no longer a novel concept.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re appropriate,” the duke grumbled. “No wonder Edmund couldn’t bear to introduce this woman to me before his so-called elopement.”
“Real elopement,” Veronica said. “We’re married.”
“So you say.” The duke took another slurp of red wine, and when he spoke, his teeth were as stained as a recently satiated vampire.
Mr. Ardingley smiled. “You’re one to feign propriety, Father. I think you’ve shocked Miss Clarke with your collection of medieval weapons.”
“Good,” the duke said. “Those Americans should be scared. Acting like they’re the superior power in the world.”
“Father is involved in all sorts of mysterious activity with other governments and companies so large they seem entirely devoid of a nation’s values with which to adhere.”
“Is that so?” Signor Palombi asked. “How exciting. Fascinamento.”
“I hope your tongue is not always that loose,” the duke said to his oldest son.
Mr. Ardingley flushed.
“So these are medieval?” Cora asked. “I hadn’t realized the house was that old.”
“Estate,” the duchess corrected her. “We don’t live in mere houses.”
“It’s all new,” Mr. Ardingley said. “All quite fabricated.”
“It’s Victorian,” the duke said. “You mustn’t give the American the wrong impression. They are most gullible.”
Mr. Ardingley waved his hand. “This place is fifty years old. Younger than dear father.”
“My father built it,” the duke said.
“It’s a monstrosity.” Mr. Ardingley took another sip of wine. “One rather wishes our ancestors had started oppressing people in the eighteenth century instead of waiting until the nineteenth, so we could have one of those bright airy places in style then instead.”
“Nonsense,” the duke said. “Those manor houses look all alike. All dado rails, friezes, and cornices. Ridiculous decorations, as if the English hadn’t advanced past Greek architecture. This is Victorian. This is English.”
“I’ve always liked it,” Lord Holt agreed. “I, for one, think Grandfather did a wonderful job building this. It will be my honor to continue the dukedom at this great property.
“Brown-noser.” The duke waved his hand, in the same dismissive gesture as his eldest son. Wine spilled from his glass onto the white tablecloth.
Lord Holt’s shoulders lowered, as if he were pondering the effectiveness of the centerpieces as spots behind which to hide.
The duchess directed her gaze to Veronica. “Poor taste runs in the family.”
Veronica concentrated on cutting her food, as the room fell into silence except for her knife screeching against the plate.
“Well, I do like this place,” Cora said, trying to be polite.
“Your Grace,” the duke said. “You can call me that.”
Cora blinked.
“Father paid big money to get that title,” Mr. Ardingley said. “Lloyd George gave it to him in exchange for considerable funds.”
The duke tightened his grip around his knife and fork, as if the task suddenly required more force. “My family’s impact on the region was considerable.”
“Yes, but the impact was hardly good,” Mr. Ardingley said. “Anyway, Father is determined to get his money’s worth of respect before he dies.”
“He didn’t mean that, Your Grace,” Mrs. Ardingley said hastily.
“You mean you paid to become a duke?” Signor Palombi asked, his voice incredulous. “How fantastic.”
The duke scowled, and his expression did not even improve when the footman exchanged his fish course for game.
“My ancestors made this region great,” the duke said. “They provided coal and steel for thousands. The Empire flourished because of the Holt family.”
“They lowered the life expectancy of this region to thirty years,” Mr. Ardingley said. “But money must be made, and it gave father dearest a dukedom.”
“My son is upset I refused to lend him money,” the duke confided. “He is envious he was not as successful as his ancestors. But then he is only my bastard. As I’ve said before, no bastard of mine will ever inherit a farthing.”
Mr. Ardingley stiffened, and Mrs. Ardingley trembled. She wrapped her blue and green shawl more thoroughly around her, as if the cotton threads could offer fortification against her father-in-law’s harsh words. Even Lord Holt appeared upset, and Cora wondered how close the two brothers were. Had they played together during holidays? How sad that their futures would have been so different.
Signor Palombi coughed. “Well, Your Grace, we in Italy are grateful you can share England’s industrial triumphs with us.”
“For a price,” the duke said hastily. “Always a price.”
“Naturalmento,” Signor Palombi said. “I look forward to our conversation later.”
“Hmph.” The duke concentrated on his plate.
Cora frowned.
Something about their exchange had felt...wrong.
Obviously, though, everything was wrong. The duke might possess wealth, but his family and business affairs seemed needlessly unhappy. Even the people who did not argue with the duke seemed to be subdued, as if recalling past disagreements with him.
Dinner progressed, and the footmen brought out increasingly complex courses.
Cora sipped her wine. Most likely wine connoisseurs would rave about its earthiness, but now she longed for something simpler.
“Your dog is very adorable.” Cora told Signor Palombi, striving to move the conversation to a more cheerful topic.
The Italian beamed. “Certo.”
“I like dogs,” the duke grumbled. “Bigger dogs. Not your petite European ones.”
Signor Palombi straightened. “Archibald is at the optimal weight for his breed.”
“And his breed is suboptimal. White. Fluffy. Not masculine.”
“I find Archibald charming,” the duchess said hastily.
“Hmph.” The duke sniffed. “Wish you would have let me get a dog.”
“You know the reason,” the duchess said.
The duke jerked his finger in the direction of Lord Holt. “The boy can’t abide dogs. That’s why we don’t have any.”
“I do not,” Lord Holt practically pouted, and Veronica gave Cora an embarrassed smile.
Perhaps children had a tendency to grow less mature in the presence of their parents, no matter how yellow their birth certificates became.
“What sort of Englishman doesn’t like dogs?” the duke mused. “No wonder he married an American.”
Veronica’s smile wobbled.
“I should have a dog here,” the duke continued. “Two hounds. Maybe three.”
Lord Holt took a long swallow of wine. “Get some revolting beasts if you want, Father.”
There was a slight emphasis on the last word, and Cora narrowed her eyes. Was it possible the duke was not Lord Holt’s father? Cora shook her head. The thought was ridiculous. Naturally the duke had fathered Mr. Ardingley. Besides, Lord Holt resembled the duke: their noses curved down in the same fashion.
Perhaps nose shapes are not the most effective method of determining paternity.
But then, the duchess had seemed very close to Signor Palombi...
“So you are an actress as well?” the duke asked Cora
“Yes,” she replied.
“Ha. I’m not sure when we began to allow such fiddle-faddle into our ranks. Is it true anyone can be an actress in Hollywood?”
“I suppose so, though it is a difficult profession to enter.”
She would need to try approaching other studios when she returned.
“It’s much coveted,” Veronica said. “It’s incredibly difficult.”
“Ah-ha. So you must have studied at some educational establishment? A dramatic academy?” He sniffed, as if education were something merely for the masses who desired to pretend that by reading about events, they knew something about them.
The duke was actually involved in shaping the world. Veronica had mentioned his frequent excursions abroad to various sand-covered countries in the Middle East related to some mysterious money matters.
“I never actually studied acting,” Cora admitted.
“And your parents approve of you doing this? It seems like such an absurd thing to do. Acting.”
“They suggested it,” Cora said.
“I suppose there are people who would rather pretend to be someone they are not.” He gave a definite glance to Veronica, who flushed.
“I warrant her parents always wanted her to be a star,” Signor Palombi said. “Some people desire that. They spend so much time with their children and begin to imagine all manner of talents in them.”
“It’s due to lack of exposure to proper arts and athletic endeavors,” Mrs. Ardingley said.
“I never gave Edmund any such encouragement,” the duke said.
“Indeed you did not,” the duchess concurred. “None whatsoever.”
The duke glared at his wife.
“Tell us more about your path to stardom, Miss Clarke,” Signor Palombi said.
“It is odd to think back about it,” Cora said. “We were living in Vegas at the time—”
Mrs. Ardingley’s hand fluttered to her chest. “How shocking.”
“My father told me to audition. My mother laughed him off, but he convinced me. Then they drove me to Los Angeles, and I did the audition that afternoon.”
“And you received the part?” Veronica asked
Cora nodded. “I don’t think I had studied that much.”
“Then you must be quite gifted,” the duke declared.
“Yes,” Veronica agreed, somewhat uncertainly. “Indeed.”
The rest of the dinner continued to be strained.
“Let’s meet in the drawing room for drinks,” Lord Holt declared.
Some people murmured agreement, but Cora made her apologies and left.
Dinner had been a brutal affair.