Several weeks later, while having dinner at the Louis XIV Restaurant in Rockefeller Plaza, Paul told me he was planning to leave soon for London on business. He wanted to take some of my records with him. He had met the great Wagnerian opera singer Kirsten Flagstad, had told her about my voice, and had asked her advice.
She immediately recommended that he contact the world-renowned singing teacher Madame Blanche Marchesi, in London. She was the daughter of Mathilde and Salvatore Marchesi, who were the famous teachers of Nellie Melba, Etelka Gerster, and Sybil Sanderson, the beautiful singer from California who was acclaimed as the “Girl with the Eiffel Tower Voice.”
“So, Teddy, I was planning to see her and will ask her to listen to your recordings.”
I realized that Paul was serious, and suddenly I was scared that no matter what he thought, maybe I didn’t have the true vocal ability for a career in concert or opera. Nevertheless, by the time Paul was ready to sail for Southampton, he was loaded down with my demo recordings. That very night, out at dinner, Paul took my hand and slipped the real engagement ring onto my finger. He gave me a great big kiss and said, “Now, darling, it’s official. We’re engaged.”
I looked down at the ring and whispered, “It’s more beautiful than when you picked it out.”
“You chose it, too, Teddy,” Paul said. “Are you pleased?”
“Pleased?” I laughed. “I’m ecstatic . . . elated . . . delighted . . . delirious . . . with joy . . . and I’ll never take it off. Never. I swear.”
“Good.” Paul smiled, and then called for the check. “Come on, Teddy, I have another surprise for you. We can’t be late!”
He hailed a cab. After a short ride across town, we pulled up in front of a huge apartment house on the East River: Number 1 Sutton Place South, right on the corner of 57th Street. There, we were met by the resident manager, who escorted us up to the penthouse. At the doorway, he handed Paul the keys.
We crossed the threshold into one of the most exquisite apartments in the city of New York. From the marble-floored entrance hall, we walked through a music room and into a drawing room at least forty feet long, with a high, gilded ceiling and elegant French furnishings. On one wall hung a seventeenth-century Beauvais tapestry. Opposite was a great marble fireplace flanked by two French doors. The doors led out to a terrace; I later found to my amazement that it ran around the entire penthouse. I could circle the whole block from 57th to 58th Street without leaving the apartment.
Although it was ten in the evening, every room was lighted, as if we had been expected. On the coffee table in front of the couch, facing the fireplace, was a champagne bucket with a bottle and two glasses, just waiting.
As we walked through the rooms, he told me he was no longer at the Plaza, that he’d leased the penthouse from the Hon. Mrs. Frederick Guest (Amy, daughter of American entrepreneur Henry Phipps), and had moved in that morning. “Do you like it?” he asked.
“Like it? Of course I like it! It’s fantastic, but aren’t you going to be lonely living here by yourself? It’s so huge.”
“Not if you are with me.”
“Paul, you know I can’t do that. What would people say?”
“What they say anyway.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“I know . . . but your mother . . .”
“And yours, and society.”
“But we are engaged.”
“Yes, but only as of tonight.” I looked at the ring on my finger, sparkling in the moonlight. “Darling, it’s sooo beautiful,” I said. “And I’m so proud of it.”
“Well, I’m proud to be marrying the granddaughter of Henry Charles Lytton,” Paul replied, putting his arms around me.
My mouth dropped open as I looked at him. “What did you say? Why did you say that? You don’t even know my grandfather. Maybe you wouldn’t like him.”
“Oh, but I do! I met him yesterday.”
“You . . . ? You mean . . .”
“I mean, I decided to call on him, and I did. In fact, I went up to see him at his apartment, and we had a most interesting talk. He is a brilliant businessman, remarkable for his age—ninety-one, isn’t he? Thinks I might be good for you.”
“Oh, does he? Did you tell him you’ve been married four times?”
“Yes.”
“And divorced four times?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say to that?”
“That you will be good for me!” This made him smile. “He was pleased that we are engaged. Of course, he doesn’t approve of separations, therefore he thinks it unwise for you to study in London. Thinks you can study here. Still, he admires your spirit and courage in making a career for yourself, and wishes you well.”
“He was a singer himself when he was young.”
“I know. A baritone. Still has a great speaking voice. And, by the way, he invited us to come out to Roslyn for lunch any Sunday. Shall we go?”
I could only nod, for I was still in shock at what Paul had said—that he was “proud to be marrying the granddaughter of Henry Charles Lytton.” After what Dad and Bailey had done—and why they’d done it—it meant the world to me to hear Paul say those words. It was all I needed to make me accept who I was and no longer be afraid or ashamed.
From the terrace, the view of the city in every direction was astonishing, especially at night. And, in the late 1930s, the buildings, though not so high or close together, still resembled a jungle of sparkling lights. We stood looking down at the East River, watching the ships head upstream until they disappeared under the 59th Street Bridge, which connects Manhattan to Queens, or downriver, past the tip of Manhattan and the Statue of Liberty, leading out to sea.
All at once, I became aware that the roar of the city traffic had been muffled by sweet music drifting out to us from the drawing room. “That’s the new Muzak system I had installed. Isn’t it great?” Paul said. Muzak was a novelty then—not yet in every airport, elevator, and public restroom—and very fashionable.
“Come, Teddy,” Paul said. “Let’s dance.” I followed him inside and into his arms and we twirled around the room, ending up on the couch in front of the marble fireplace, which Paul had miraculously lighted. I remember as if it were yesterday that I leaned back and closed my eyes for just a moment and then heard a cork pop and the sound of two glasses being filled. There was Paul, offering me a glass of champagne and saying, “To us, Teddy. I’m happy. Are you?”
I nodded, took the glass and drank not only one, but two and a half glasses of champagne. Then, with the firelight and sweet music filtering through the room, and his arms around me, I fell sound asleep.
I awoke to his kisses on my mouth, my breasts, my whole body. I was completely naked. He had undressed me and was now studying me. “Darling . . . you are beautiful,” he said as he inspected me, his fingertips gently caressing my lips. “Even when you’re asleep,” he added, smiling.
We’d been together before, but this night was extra special. We were engaged, and I was totally in love with this man and wanted so much to please him.
In our first years together, Paul, in his early forties, was as demanding and passionate as I. Strong and well built from years of weight lifting and working out with Nat Pendleton on the beach at Santa Monica, he had developed his body into that of an athlete, and was proud of it. But it was also his mind, his sensitivity, that aroused me. I could never say no to this man.
I tried to protest, but he coaxed me into his bed and we made love the old-fashioned way, making me forget all but the knowledge that we were one.
We slept curled up, spoon fashion. In the morning we had breakfast in his pajamas, he wearing the bottoms and me wearing the top. We ate shredded wheat and milk (all we could find in the kitchen). Then we walked around the entire terrace in the midday sun, showered, and went back to bed.
How I ever got out of that apartment the next day without being seen by the stodgy other residents, I’ll never know.