“You are mistaken, Sir! You could not have proposed marriage to me in any form that I would have found acceptable!”
Lylah Stuart Hart watched critically as the diminutive woman wearing the simple white gown looked up into the eyes of the tall man who stood opposed to her.
As she watched the scene unfold, she was not aware of the lights to either side of her nor of the camera that whirred almost inaudibly to her right. She was more aware of the face of Allister St. John, for his reaction was to her more important than anything else. He was a tall man, extremely thin, with reddish hair and electric blue eyes—one of the best directors in Hollywood.
St. John did not move his head, for he had intense powers of concentration, but as Lylah watched him closely she remembered when she had first mentioned her pet project. They had been in her office and she had said, “We’ll get Lady Mary Worley to play Miss Eliza Bennet, and we’ll get Clyde Scott to play Mr. Darcy. It’ll cost an arm and a leg, but it’ll be the best filming of Pride and Prejudice that’s ever been made—or ever will be!”
That had been a year earlier, and it had taken every bit of pressure and every dime, practically, that Monarch Studios could raise to pull the chemistry together, but looking at Scott’s lean, hearty, aristocratic face as he spoke his lines she thought, It’s been the right thing to do! A sense of satisfaction came to her, for the burden of running a motion picture studio during the thirties had been great indeed. Many studios had sprung up, and most of them had died stillborn. A few giants had emerged—Metro Goldwyn Mayer, Fox, Columbia. Monarch was not to be considered in their category in size and the number of pictures. Lylah and her husband, Jesse, had decided early to make few pictures—but those few would be quality.
Now, as she saw the scene from her favorite novel unfolding, a glow touched her, and she was satisfied with what she saw. A voice whispered in her ear, “Mrs. Hart—”
Lylah turned around to find her secretary, Charles Kent, standing beside her. The actors were still speaking so she held up her hand until St. John said, “Cut!” and announced, “That’s a take!”
At once Lylah went over to the actors. She smiled at Lady Mary Worley, who was not pretty in the Hollywood sense, but the character she played, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, was not all that beautiful either. “Very fine, Mary!” she said. “Just the way I pictured Eliza Bennet!” She took the Englishwoman’s smile, then turned and looked up at Clyde, who at six-four was one of the tallest actors in Hollywood. “You did fine, Clyde, couldn’t have been better!”
“Thank you, Lylah,” Scott said. “It’s easy working with Lady Mary.”
St. John said, “It was all right,” which was high praise coming from him. He was a driver. He slapped his hands together in an irritated fashion saying, “Well, let’s get on—we can’t stand around here all day!”
Lylah smiled at his mannerisms, then turned and walked away to where Kent was waiting. “What is it, Charles?” she asked.
“We’d better go to your office.”
Somewhat surprised, Lylah nodded. “All right.” She followed him off the set, across a narrow alley into the main offices of Monarch Studios. As soon as they turned down a hall, they entered her office, then passed by the secretary who looked up and said, “A call came from Isabel’s agent, Mrs. Hart.”
“I’ll take it as soon as I’m through with Charles,” Lylah replied. She entered the office, which was rather simple as such offices are. One entire side was covered with books, and there were easy chairs with lamps where one could sit and read. A massive desk, neatly organized by Kent, dominated the room, but Lylah did not sit down. She turned and said, “What is it?”
For one instant Charles Kent studied his employer before he spoke. Lylah Stuart Hart had been a beautiful woman all of her life. Now, at sixty she looked no more than forty-five. She had kept her figure, and her auburn hair still had its reddish glints without the help of her hairdresser. She was not tall, and her face was not beautiful in the classic sense, but she had a rich complexion. Whatever it is that makes men look at a woman—Lylah Stuart Hart still had it.
“It’s Adam—he’s in trouble.”
“What’s happened?” She felt a sudden stab of fear. “Has he been in an accident?”
“No, not exactly,” Kent hesitated. “He’s been arrested.”
“Arrested, for what? Not drunken driving, I hope?”
“Worse than that, I’m afraid, Mrs. Hart. I just got a call from the Eighth Precinct. They’re holding him—he’s charged with assaulting a police officer.”
Lylah stared into the round face of Kent, unable to speak for a moment. Quickly she tried to pull herself together, but she knew she could not keep the dismay that rose in her from showing on her face. “Have you told Jesse?”
“No, Mr. Hart evidently hasn’t come back from the lawyer’s office yet. He’s probably on his way right now.”
“What did they say exactly, Charles?”
“He was arrested at the Sky Room along with Jean DeCamp.”
Kent noticed Lylah’s lips tighten at his use of the young woman’s name. He was aware that Lylah and Jesse disapproved of Adam’s affair with her, but he was also aware that there was little that anyone could do to stop it. Kent had not been with Monarch more than a year, but he had learned that Adam Stuart was not following in the path that his mother and stepfather would have liked. Adam had become a playboy and had brought lines into Lylah’s face that nothing else had been able to do. “They said that he’s charged with public drunkenness, which is nothing—but striking an officer is. I think we’d better get Dennison down there right away.”
“I’ll go myself, as soon as Jesse gets here!”
“I still think we’d better call Mr. Dennison.” P. D. Dennison was the chief lawyer for Monarch Studios and a personal friend of the Harts. “You’re going to need a lawyer on this one, Mrs. Hart.”
“You’re right, Charles—try to get him, will you? Then I’ll see if I can find Jesse.”
As Kent left the room, Lylah turned and walked over to her desk. She sat down carefully in the leather-covered chair, leaned forward, and put her forehead in her hands. The silence in the room was broken only by the sibilant hissing of the Casablanca fan overhead. For a long time she struggled with the fear and apprehension that threatened to overwhelm her. “Oh, Adam, Adam,” she finally murmured softly. An image of this son of hers that had lately brought her so much grief came before her eyes and with it the image of another man. The two were separate for a moment but were very alike, and then they seemed to merge into one.
The second image was one of Manfred von Richthofen, Adam’s father. Lylah had been in Germany in 1918, had met von Richthofen, and had been swept into a secret, wildly passionate affair with the German ace. When he died, Lylah was carrying his child. The baby was born in France, but Lylah had never acknowledged his father to the public—although she and Jesse had found it wise to tell Adam.
Now, Lylah Hart thought of Manfred, the young man who had lived under a doomed star. Those days sometimes seemed long ago, but from time to time they came to her with a brilliant intensity. Lylah had loved the young German flier with a wild, unreasoning passion—but she had known for a long time that had he lived, they could never have been happy together.
Now she had Adam, the son of the famed Red Baron, and she saw nothing ahead for him but tragedy—for he was a young man without a star to steer by. Tears of frustration and fear came to her eyes, but quickly she found a handkerchief in her pocket and wiped them away. She sat there until the door opened, then looked up to see Jesse Hart enter. Lylah had fallen in love with him as she had never fallen in love with another man—not even Manfred. Hart was no more than five-ten and a trim 165 pounds. Now, at the age of fifty-five, his crisp brown hair was going gray, but his neat, short beard had never changed from the day she first saw him.
“Jesse, it’s Adam—he’s in trouble.”
Hart came to stand before her as she stood up from the d
esk. He took her in his arms, holding her for a moment. He knew her well and understood that what was happening was tearing her to pieces. She was now a godly woman, this wife of his, and had much faith—but Adam’s life over the past few years had been a severe test for both of them. “It’s all right, Lylah,” he said, “we’ll just trust God. Now, what is it Adam’s done?”
Sergeant Milton Cavanaugh did not like rich people on the whole. True enough, he did not know many of them, and those he did encounter were inevitably like these two who stood before him, in trouble of some sort. Cavanaugh was a pudgy, red-faced man with dark brown eyes and a shaggy mop of hair that continually fell over his forehead. He brushed it back now, saying with some sharpness, “Look, I’m sorry, Mr. Hart, but I don’t make the law! The charge is assault of a police officer, and you’re not going to get bail for that—not tonight! It’s Friday night, and the judge ain’t in his chambers.”
“But isn’t there some way we can get him out, Officer?” Lylah had allowed Jesse to speak to the officers when they had arrived at the precinct headquarters. She had noted that Sergeant Cavanaugh was tired and irritated, and although anxiety made her tense, she kept her voice quiet and said, “We’d do anything that’s necessary, of course.”
Cavanaugh hesitated for a moment. These two are a little different—not like most swells. He did not know either of them, but their dress and their bearing identified them as what he called the upper crust. Sighing, he leaned forward and put his hand on the desk, flat before him, spreading his short fingers out and studying them for a moment. The room was filled with the muttering of conversation, mostly by people waiting to get someone out of jail and by officers who came by laughing and joking, totally oblivious to the misery of those who waited. It had become their natural environment. Trouble to them was like water to a fish or air to mammals. It was just there, and one learned to ignore it.
“I’m sorry for your trouble, and if it was just drunkenness something could be done, but assaulting a police officer? Well, we just can’t overlook that, I’m afraid.”
“Can we at least see him?”
“I suppose that can be arranged. Not exactly what the rules say.”
“We’d be very grateful, Officer!” Jesse said quickly. “We appreciate your consideration.”
Accustomed to being bombarded by anger, sarcasm, and insults, Cavanaugh yielded. “Well, just for ten minutes, you understand?”
“Thank you very much,” Hart said quickly. He took Lylah’s arm and soon the two of them were directed down the hall, where they waited in a bleak, bare room containing only a table, three chairs, and some battered filing cabinets that had been unsuccessfully repainted an odious orange color. There was no window in the room and it stank of cigarette and cigar smoke—and the smell of fear was almost palpable.
The door opened, and when Adam entered, it was closed again by a burly officer. Lylah turned to say, “Are you all right, Adam?”
“Certainly!”
Adam Stuart had sobered considerably in his brief time in the jail cell. The cell was occupied by winos harvested off the streets of the ghettos of Los Angeles. One of them had thrown up, and the smell had almost sickened him. However, now he stood straight and looked his mother full in the eyes waiting for her to speak.
“I don’t think we’re going to be able to get you out right away,” Lylah said.
“That’s all right.” Adam’s words were short and clipped—there was a stubbornness in his back—and he held his head at a certain pitch that suddenly and terribly reminded Lylah of Manfred von Richthofen. He’s got that same kind of stubbornness that Manfred had! The thought flashed through Lylah’s mind, but she drove it away instantly. “P. D. will be down as soon as he can,” Jesse said quickly, “but from what the sergeant said, I think we’ll have to wait until the judge is available, and that will be Monday morning.”
“Don’t worry about me!”
Lylah moved forward and put her hand on her son’s arm. She felt the strong muscles there grow tense beneath her touch, and although he did not withdraw physically, there was a wall there that saddened her. They had been so close when he was growing up, but after he had reached adolescence, a gulf had begun to form. He had gone his own way, and when he had become a man, the gulf had widened. Now he was almost a stranger to her. “We won’t go to Arkansas, of course.”
“Of course you’ll go!” Adam said instantly. “No sense your staying here just because I’m in the clink!” His own words sounded harsh, and as Adam saw the effect of his words reflected in his mother’s eyes, suddenly he was sorry. “Look,” he forced a smile and put his arm around her, “Christmas reunion with the Stuarts means more to you than any other holiday. Of course you’ll go.” He turned to Jesse and said, “Dad, don’t let her talk you out of it. It won’t do any good for her to sit home grieving over the prodigal.”
“I’ll do what I can, Son.” Jesse Hart had been a good father to this young man, and well did Adam know it. Actually Adam was bitterly ashamed of his conduct and hated himself for what had happened. Something, however, kept him from saying so directly. He had manufactured a veneer that covered his feelings quite successfully. Now he managed a smile and said, “Maybe I’ll get out in time to fly down and catch the tail end of it for Christmas.”
“Are you sure, Adam?” Lylah asked. “I don’t mind staying here, and after you get out—”
“No, Mother.” Adam shook his head firmly. “You go on down to the farm! I’ll get there if I can. Have a good time.”
They stood talking briefly, and then the officer entered and shrugged. “Time’s up!”
Adam leaned over and kissed his mother, and she clung to him for a moment. He almost managed to say the words, “I’m sorry,” but somehow could not bring himself to do it. Instead he laughed and said, “Ah, this won’t be so bad. Give me some time for some meditation.” He turned and slapped Jesse hard on the shoulder. “Take care of her, Dad. You two have a good time!”
After the guard led Adam away, Jesse said, “Come along; we’ll talk to P. D. Perhaps there’s some way to get him out anyway.”
But that was not to be the case. P. D. Dennison arrived thirty minutes later and spoke to the sergeant. He then pulled Jesse and Lylah to one side, saying, “It’s out of the sergeant’s hands, so it’ll have to be Monday morning. I can have him out then. You’re going to your family reunion in Arkansas, aren’t you?”
“We were—”
“Go on and go. I’ll get him out and put him on a plane. He’ll get there for part of Christmas anyway.”
“All right, P. D.” Jesse said firmly. “Thanks a lot.”
When Jesse and Lylah were outside, Lylah looked up into the dark skies where clouds covered the stars and a thin moon showed only intermittently between the tattered remnants. She waited while Jesse brought the car, then got in and sat down silently. He drove the car away expertly, and neither of them spoke for several blocks. Finally, Jesse said, “I think we’ve got to go to Arkansas since everybody’s expecting us. And Adam’s right—it wouldn’t do him any good for you to stay here.”
“All right, Jesse.”
She sat silently until they reached the house. They went inside and began to pack their things. Two hours later they were on the plane winging its way eastward. Looking down on Los Angeles as the plane soared higher, Lylah saw that the lights glittered as far as she could see, then the plane went through the cloud cover, and she lost sight of the city.
Turning to Jesse she asked almost plaintively, “Have we been too lenient on Adam, Jesse?”
“We’ve done the best we could.” His hard hand took hers; he lifted it to his lips and kissed it. “He’ll be all right. We’ve been praying for him for a long time now, haven’t we? Well, God’s got those prayers filed away somewhere. He won’t let them fall to the ground!”
“WENDY HAS A MAN AT LAST!”
Thick drifts of snow lined the sides of the roads, and blackbirds wheeled over the frozen brown earth t
hat made up the Arkansas hills. The black automobile that bounced and skittered from side to side over the gravel road tossed the four people inside roughly.
“Blast this car!” Owen Stuart complained, hanging on to the enormous steering wheel of the ’39 Packard with his left hand. His other hand was missing, replaced by a gleaming steel hook that he used to suddenly tap the dashboard impatiently. “As much as this thing cost, you’d think it’d be a lot better car!”
“How much did it cost, Dad?” two voices asked simultaneously. William and Woodrow Stuart exchanged grins in the backseat. They had heard this story before. Woody was the smaller of the two and, at the age of nineteen had an air of confidence about him. He was small like his mother, Allie, who sat in the front seat next to Owen, and he was towheaded, with dark blue eyes.
William, better known as Will, was a student at Vanderbilt studying premed. He had big shoulders and heavy bones like his father, and his chestnut hair had gleams of red in it. His eyes were dark blue like those of his brother. “Why, this thing must’ve cost at least five hundred dollars!” he said, winking this time at his mother, who turned to smile at him.
Owen snorted contemptuously. “This automobile cost exactly one thousand one hundred sixty-six dollars and ninety-two cents when I drove it out of the showroom!” he announced. “I wish I’d kept my Studebaker! These blasted Packards are not worth a dime!”
Allison Dupree Stuart, better known as Allie, at the age of fifty, still had honey-colored hair that she kept done up around her head in a fashionable manner. She had a square face and a determined chin but rather delicate, smooth features. “Will you stop cussing, Owen!” She turned her head and winked merrily at the young men. “You’ll be a bad influence on our children!”
“Why, Allie, I’m not cussing; it’s all right to say ‘blasted’!” Owen insisted. He dodged a pothole successfully, but the back end fishtailed over the frozen road on a patch of ice. He muttered to himself, then when he got the car straightened said, “I hope Wendy and Alex find the farm all right.”
Winds of Change Page 2