The It Girls

by Karen Harper

  “Maybe we should go back in and around—” was all Cosmo got out before they were spotted and something was thrown at them. It knocked off his hand and splattered his face. Rotten strawberries? No, it smelled worse than that.

  Spoiled, raw eggs smacked at both of them and shouts to echo that: “Rotter! Cad! Paid a fee to go to town, letting all the poor folk drown!” a chant began over and over.

  Suddenly, someone pulled Lucile back toward the hall. Cosmo, still holding her arm, turned away too. Elinor!

  The three of them retreated quickly, though mud, slime, and horse dung followed, some clinging to them. Others trying to leave the building behind them screamed and scattered. An official-sounding voice from the doorway shouted, “Order! Order, you rabble out there, or the magistrates will have you all in here!”

  But the crowd’s insults and the pelting of ordure grew.

  “I—I can’t believe it,” Cosmo huffed out as they backtracked into the courtroom where several people blatantly turned their backs on them, but at least didn’t pelt them with garbage.

  “Keep moving,” Elinor insisted. “There must be a back door into a square or an alley. If we must, we will walk to a cabriolet stand. How dare the rabble act like that, led on by lies in the newspapers! Oh, I’ve suffered from that before, so welcome to the club!”

  Lucile wiped Cosmo’s face and dabbed at the rotten egg on the bosom of her frock. So it had come to this! Fleeing New York was one thing, but to have to flee London, too?

  “Elinor, I’m sure I’ve said this before and may say it yet again, but what would I do without you?”

  “Sisters are meant to stick together—unless they are arguing,” Elinor answered as they still bucked the flow of courtroom traffic to finally get out the back door into a quiet, shady square lined by buildings.

  “If I didn’t smell like a stable, I’d kiss you, Elinor,” Cosmo said, dabbing at the mess on his face and his frock coat. His voice caught and shook, but as lately, he was putting up a good front.

  But Lucile could see he was wiping away tears, too.

  “Isn’t this French pied-à-terre perfect, darling?” Lucile asked Cosmo as he carried her across the threshold of their newly purchased, small house near Versailles. She kissed him soundly on the cheek before he put her down.

  “Are you speaking English or French, lass?” he asked. “Peed a what?”

  She laughed and hugged him again, trying to buck him up as she had ever since they had testified at the Board of Inquiry and been attacked and hounded in the London streets. They had been completely exonerated, though that had not stopped slurs that still deeply wounded Cosmo. So deeply that, though he’d said he’d probably not go to the United States again, he had agreed to come here for the autumn with her to get away from snide remarks and sideways glances, even in Scotland. It was, she thought, as if he bore a scar of melancholy she could hardly heal.

  “Let’s look round, while the chauffeur unloads our things and the dogs,” she said, grasping his hand and tugging him along. Neither of them had seen the house, though she had talked to its seller and received photographs of the interior and layout.

  Cosmo sailed his hat onto a silk settee and let her lead him through the narrow stone house and out toward the walled-in backyard. The slant of the afternoon sun had shaded most of the grass. Already they could hear their big St. Bernard, Porthos, and their yipping Pekingese, Mr. Furze, scrambling behind them with their nails skidding on the polished stone entry. She unlocked the back door and pulled it open to the autumn air.

  “At least, at last,” he said, “privacy not far from Paris, to keep us both happy. We shall enjoy sitting out here.”

  “And entertaining. You said we could.”

  “Of course. And since Elinor has somehow found the money to take a place on Avenue Victor Hugo just a short motorcar ride away, no doubt, we’ll have guests you both invite here, not to mention Elsie de Wolfe’s Villa Trianon nearby. That woman knows everyone everywhere we go.”

  “About Elinor—you aren’t implying Lord Curzon’s given her a loan again? She said she has money from the sale of little Lamberts since she has moved into Mother’s London Green Street house while Clayton’s still hiding out in Constantinople.”

  “Let’s face facts, even if she can’t. Lord Curzon is ambitious to serve in the government and he not only won’t marry a divorced woman but one who is a notorious authoress. I’m afraid she’s going to be hurt, because she obviously adores him, and he’s out for himself, and that’s it. But let’s just concentrate on us right now.”

  In a splash of sun and crisp breeze with the dogs bounding around the yard, Cosmo pulled her to him in a hug. “I want to make you happy, lass, and I’m proud of how you stuck by my side in the Titanic mess.”

  “They weren’t just after you. Besides, we are a team.”

  “France for a while it is, but turnabout is fair play that you’ll go to Scotland with me. And no more of America with those brash people and rabid reporters. We Brits may be tenacious, but the Americans—of course our own countrymen have proved to be nasty, even brutal, too . . .” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head.

  “Perhaps you’ll feel different later. You know I must go back, and I hope to have you with me. It’s more of a rough-and-tumble place even in New York but—”

  “Elinor claims the Western wilds are more civilized than the cities. But let’s just enjoy this now,” he insisted again and, tucking her arm through his, walked her out farther into the yard as if he were escorting her to a formal event.

  She kept quiet for once, though later she must find a way to get him back to New York—get herself back there at least. She had purchased a larger shop than the one on Thirty-Sixth Street, at the corner of Fifty-Seventh Street and Fifth Avenue. Wealthy American women loved her designs, and some had even taken to wearing her mannequins’ colored wigs, though that fad was short-lived. Lucile never forgot that although the Titanic had helped her put life—and her passion to design—in perspective, she was still thrilled to make women happy, to make them feel they were special.

  Of course it hadn’t been so smooth going here in couturiere-crazy France, where she’d been snubbed at first as an audacious Englishwoman, but her designs had begun to entrance and conquer. Once again, her dreadful experience on the Titanic and afterward with Cosmo had even strengthened her backbone more. Besides, she wasn’t just designing for “pretty” as Esme called it years ago, but to make women feel better about themselves, more free.

  One of her biggest triumphs lately was doing away with the terrible, high-boned collar that was always poking at women’s necks. Her lower collar she’d named after Peter Pan—Elinor’s suggestion, since it sounded a bit fairytale-ish and looked like a boy’s collar—was most popular in the States. But meanwhile, tango-crazy Paris was also Lucile-fashion crazy; still, she wanted more and more for her customers here, in America, and at home.

  Forcing her thoughts back to the present, she strolled the fringe of their new property with Cosmo. The lilac bush would be lovely in the spring, she thought. Two wicker lounge chairs awaited with a table between, perfect for morning tea or late lunches. One wall had a trellis with ivy, and birdsong welcomed them from the only large tree in the yard. But she wouldn’t be sitting here as long as he thought, oh no, she would not.

  Cosmo sighed so hard she felt his chest rise and fall. “I like it here, at least for a while,” he admitted.

  “You can just feel the romantic history here,” she said.

  “You’re sounding like Elinor.”

  “Maybe just a little. We do agree on some things and support each other when push comes to shove, you know.”

  “I do know. She was a gem to come to court, and she rescued us from that mob.”

  She loosed his arm and whirled in a circle as if she were one of her own mannequins, showing off a new gown. She wanted to get him off brooding about that terrible day so he didn’t get depressed again. His honor had taken such a
terrible hit that it had changed him greatly.

  “Speaking of Elinor’s love of romance—and mine too, Cosmo—just think that this house was once given to Napoleon by Mademoiselle Mars and has the lovely title Pavilion of Mars! Names matter, you know. I’ve proved that.”

  “But Mars was the god of war, and that may be coming here in Europe.”

  “Don’t even say that if you mean Germany’s saber rattling. Paris is very gay now, and everyone wants to have fun and buy new things. So I want to learn to tango and you must too!” she said, clapping her hands above her head and bumping her hip into his.

  But instead of laughing or taking that bait, he frowned. “Not me, lass. I draw the line at that. Some say it’s indecent with all that thigh thrusting amid sultry looks and hip grinding. Let’s just save that for our bed. As for this place being given to Napoleon once, I do relate to that. The poor bastard thought he had the world at his feet and ended up in exile too.”

  “You came!” Elinor cried as she opened the door to her beloved Lord Curzon the moment he rang the bell. She’d even sent Williams away for the day and told her to come in quietly at night and go directly up to her dormer room.

  He stepped in, set down a portmanteau, apparently his only luggage. The hired hack he’d engaged drove away. He closed the door behind him before she could and glanced around, perhaps to see if they were alone, and, still in his coat and hat, picked her off her feet in a crushing hug so unlike him. She embraced him, too, arms tight around his back, surprised not to feel the iron brace he always wore under his clothing.

  He didn’t kiss her as she had hoped and expected but buried his face against her throat and held tight. “Of course,” he murmured, his words muffled against her skin, “I only came so you could give me a tour of your beloved Versailles. No one knows I’m here, do they?”

  “Only my lady’s maid, and she’s out for the day and utterly loyal. I have eighteen days to finish my next novel, entitled Guinevere’s Lover, but I’d toss it all away for our two days here together. The story is about two star-crossed lovers, and the hero has a rather cynical attitude toward things at times, but love wins, Milor.”

  He lifted his head; his gaze devoured her. “Are you calling me my lord after all our times together?” he asked, his usual stentorian voice low and raspy.

  “No, it’s Milor, m-i-l-o-r, and I’ve just given away my private diary name for you that you have asked to know, but I said no.”

  “I shall hope that my darling will tell me all then.” He smiled, though his lips still looked taut. Would he ever realize that the stoic hero of the novel was greatly based on him? But he would probably be too above it all to care for such trivia.

  He went on, “Shall we talk of the classics, authoress Glyn, or more about your writing, or about how I hope to attain the vaunted position of Lord Privy Seal in the coalition government in Parliament?”

  “No, Milor.”

  “Then let the only privy seal between us be our love and our lovemaking.”

  He swept her off her feet—though, indeed he’d already done that nearly four years ago.

  CHAPTER Twenty-Seven

  Nineteen fourteen had started out so well for Lucile; her business had grown and demand for her fashions increased. But then the unthinkable had happened in August: war. Germany had attacked France after marching through Belgium, leaving King George with no choice but to send England into war against his cousin Kaiser Wilhelm.

  Some hoped the Yanks—the Americans Lucile loved so much—would get in, but there was no sign of that yet. Although Paris still seemed safe, Lucile had left the city she loved so much and, after a short trip to London and Scotland, persuaded Cosmo to come with her to the United States. She tried desperately to keep him happy here but knew he was yearning to go home.

  “Cosmo, another good review for The Perils of Pauline!” she told him, looking up from the Chicago Tribune she was reading on the sofa next to him while he studied an issue of the London Times that was at least two weeks old. “They adored my costumes in it. William Randolph Hearst is going to run the series in his papers, and he’s put money into the moving picture serial. He’s been quite pleased with my fashion column in his magazine Harper’s Bazaar, you know. And to be asked to teach at the New York School of Fine and Applied Art—well, what an honor. See—this country is good luck for us.”

  “For you, lass, not a homesick Scotsman.”

  “But we’re a team, remember? What would I have done without your advice all these years?”

  “Spent too much money too soon.”

  “But the money keeps rolling in, so how can you say that? Flo Ziegfeld wants me to design costumes for his shows, and Sears and Roebuck in Chicago is interested in my adapting my designs for their stores. That’s my new mission here, lifting the spirits of the average American woman through an affordable but stylish clothing line.”

  “Your mission, eh?” he teased, peering over the edge of his paper. “You’re sounding like a saver of souls in some far-off jungle. You work too hard, and it’s beginning to show. And how’s your stomachache doing? Too much rich food at your soirees, too many desserts fetched by your acolytes.”

  “My stomach pain is still there, and it pains me to hear that innuendo. You know I need my apprentices, not only to help at the shop but to learn to emulate my styles, so they can lighten my load in the future.”

  “Too damn many of them underfoot at your events,” he muttered, crunching his paper into his lap. “Especially that Italian Bobbie what’s-his-name. If he’s a rising opera star, why hang about a dress designer?”

  “But he’s such a beautiful singer. He’ll become famous soon enough and then we’ll lose him, but his lovely voice has set the mood for the mannequin parades and receptions. My customers adore him.”

  “So you don’t need to. He’s too doting, almost fawning. Other than for a good aria or two, not to be trusted.”

  “That’s not true! He’s not bad at designing ideas either.”

  “My point is he has designs on you, if you ask me—and you didn’t—so enough said. Lucile, my love, here in this city house, however prettily done up it is, I’m missing Scotland, the fresh wind, the scent of heather, my horses, and our home there.” He reached over and covered her knee with his big hand. “Come here on my lap, lass, and give me a kiss to make me forget it all.”

  She sailed her newspaper on the floor at her feet, twisted toward him with her arms outstretched, and—and felt sliced in two by the most horrid pain she’d ever felt.

  She cried out, pressing both hands to her belly. Falling, falling, but he caught her and laid her on the sofa where she gasped for air, and the world went screaming red and then all black.

  “Over there, farther to the right,” Elinor ordered the two men holding the portrait of herself that Milor had commissioned and she had sat for in Paris. She pointed to the right, then back again. “Now up—the bottom of the frame about your waist height. You’ll have to heft it up the ladder once you get the hooks in the wall.”

  The portrait was in the style of Reynolds or Gainsborough, just the sort of dreamy painting she used to moon over back in adolescence on the Isle of Jersey. She looked every bit the grand dame in a three-quarter portrait with a hazy background. She was wearing the sapphire earrings Milor had brought to their love nest in Paris.

  She’d told both the artist, Philip de László, and Milor that she’d wanted to have a tiger skin in it, but that had been nixed by both. Yet this was a seriously stunning portrait, a far cry from the little drawings she used to do to entertain people when she had no name or fame.

  Her dear Lord Curzon surely was taking their love seriously. He had leased this romantic, old Jacobean mansion named Montacute in Somerset and had asked her to come to live here while she redecorated it for him. It seemed to her a dream come true, to be important to him, to live in a grand house with him, worthy of his love. Surely, with her long estrangement from Clayton and him now so ill, this was a sign
she had a future as Lady Curzon someday.

  “Yes, yes. Exactly there,” she told the workmen as they struggled to hold up the framed portrait. Like everything here, it had to be placed just right. But now she must choose material for the draperies. Green, she thought, perhaps a jade green to highlight the color of her eyes, staring out so straight from that painting.

  As she hurried from the high-ceiling, walnut-paneled dining room, she sighed. Wait until she showed this estate and palatial home to Lucile and Cosmo when they returned from America. So many rooms to decorate, but how blessed she felt to have a large budget. With Milor, perhaps her days of scraping and saving were over. She felt invigorated and thrilled, even though her dear lord and master was not due back until the weekend.

  Yet she still did worry about poor, ill Clayton—who didn’t want to see her any more than she did him. So she struggled to write to pay his bills, and she telephoned frequently to their daughters, who helped tend him. He was living with Margot and her husband in Richmond, being spoiled, even to still having his rich foods and brandy.

  And yet, Elinor worried, as she fingered through the drapery samples of sleek satin and brocades, this was a remote mansion, so she had not mingled with any of Milor’s friends. She supposed his so-called Soul group still spoke against her, however much she tried to waylay that with golden thoughts sent their way. So, as far as she knew, no one outside their families knew of her time and task here. Surely Milor did not plan to stash her away as his mistress while he spent most of his public time in London. After all, his daughters were in and out here; she’d met them and thought they liked her, another good sign.

  Whatever happened, nothing—but nothing—would ever change her love for George Nathaniel Curzon.