Calamity Under the Chandelier

by Camilla Blythe

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  CALAMITY UNDER THE CHANDELIER

  First edition. February 8, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Camilla Blythe.

  ISBN: 978-1393251491

  Written by Camilla Blythe.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  What’s next?

  Sneak Peak

  More Books by Camilla Blythe

  Meet the Author

  Prologue

  JABBERIST

  December 1937

  Lord Holt’s elopement with American sensation Veronica James continues to rattle society’s finest. The world may be distraught at having lost a prized actress, but English aristocrats are appalled at having gained one.

  Hollywood’s go-to actress for vamps is officially a countess.

  The Duke and Duchess of Hawley are reportedly furious at their son’s elopement. We are glad we will be nowhere near the duke’s estate in Yorkshire, where Lord Holt and his new, utterly inappropriate bride, plan to spend the holidays.

  Chapter One

  TWIG BREAKAGE RARELY seemed intriguing, but perhaps because Veronica’s housekeeper was taking a long time to answer the door, or perhaps because Cora needed distraction from her day, Cora glanced toward the sound.

  A man was hiding beneath the hibiscus.

  The bushes poked the man’s suit, and he held his head at an odd angle as he directed the black-and-chrome camera in his hand at her. The lavender blossoms seemed incongruous against his dark attire. This might be Bel Air, the center of everything luxurious, but Cora doubted the ground was comfortable.

  Unease shot through her, and she considered screaming.

  But then, perhaps he might find her screaming amusing.

  Or lucrative.

  Unfortunately, she wasn’t confident in her ability to open her mouth to the width required for a properly audible scream and retain some semblance of refinement. The camera in the man’s hand made the latter consideration necessary.

  Throwing her handbag at him was tempting, though it might compel him to rifle through it. He didn’t need to learn it was empty.

  Cora turned around, caught the attention of the guard who’d let her through the imposing wrought-iron gates of Veronica’s mansion, and yelled, “There’s an intruder!”

  She waited for him to rush toward her, baton in hand. Instead, the guard smiled back and waved amiably.

  Hmph.

  Evidently, the guard could not hear her, and Cora cursed Veronica for acquiring the largest lot in Bel Air. The ocean was similarly unhelpful. Though the manner in which the foamy azurean waves crashed against the shore had a definite aesthetic appeal, the accompanying sound competed with her voice.

  It doesn’t matter.

  The photographer could fill his roll of film with photos of her, and no magazine would buy them.

  Not anymore.

  The thought should have been the one joyful event of the day. Instead, her legs threatened to sway, but Cora gripped the railing in as nonchalant a manner as she could muster and glared at the man. “Go away. We don’t like photographers.”

  For a brief second his eyes widened, and she smoothed her fringed leather dress. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come straight from the studio. No doubt, her lasso and bright red Stetson also appeared ridiculous.

  The stranger moved his camera away. “Very well, lassie.”

  Cora blinked.

  Clearly, Veronica drew an international interest.

  Not that that was unexpected.

  The man winked at her, and she summoned her sternest look. “Go away.”

  He rose. Leaves clung to the man’s brown plaid suit. He dusted them off, and they floated slowly to the ground, as if unwilling to abandon him.

  As far as men went, he was on the attractive end of the spectrum. Evidently, his time clambering in strangers’ gardens had prevented him from suffering from muscle atrophy, and the exposure to California’s good weather enabled one to term his skin sun-kissed.

  Wrinkles marred his shirt collar, and his dark hair was too long. The fact should have made him less handsome. People commented dismissively about men who paid sporadic visits to their barber. And yet, the man could have rivaled any star in appearance. His attire compared unfavorably with the tailored finesse of the studio executives’ suits.

  He was a taller Clark Gable, a less polished Cary Grant.

  Dark eyes twinkled at her, and she shoved her finger against the doorbell. When she glanced at him a second time, his lips had transformed into a smirk, as if he found her interest in entering the house unbelievable when she had the option of gazing at him.

  Finally, the door swung open, and she hastened through the entry, stepping onto the black-and-white tiles. Potted citrus trees and their accompanying pleasant scent filled the foyer, and a large abstract painting hung in the hallway, denoting everything wonderful.

  Cora should absolutely not be mulling the attractiveness of photographers.

  They were a pest.

  Always.

  “There’s a photographer outside,” she blurted to Veronica’s housekeeper. “In the garden.”

  She shouldn’t feel guilty about the statement, but for some strange reason, she did anyway.

  “Dios mio. I’ll ring the guard.”

  “Good,” Cora said, though her voice seemed caught at the top of her throat.

  She turned around to see if the man might still be lingering on the other side of the glass door, but he was gone.

  “Is that you, Cora?” Veronica’s voice sounded from upstairs.

  “Yes.”

  “Splendid!” Veronica strode down the staircase, and her platinum hair bounced. The abundant assortment of chandeliers imbued her in golden light as she descended the marble steps, and her silky ivory robe shimmered. Ostrich feathers lined the sleeves, billowing luxuriously, even though Cora was certain Veronica did not require the plumes for purposes of maintaining warmth. “You look terrible. I’m not sure fringe suits you, and the angle of a pert hat, for instance, is far more flattering—”

  “The clothes are from the picture.” Cora shifted her legs over the marble floor. Her boots squeaked, the sound amplified by the excellent acoustics.

  “I see. Is there something wrong?”

  “Yes,” Cora squeaked.

  If only there was a way she could avoid saying the words.

  But not saying them wouldn’t make them any less real.

  Unfortunately.

  “Darling, it’s fine,” Veronica said.

  “Oh?” Cora blinked up at her, and Veronica nodded gravely.

  “Everyone h
as a bad hair day sometimes. You can borrow my curling iron.”

  “Th-that’s not it.”

  Veronica eyed her skeptically. “You can’t disguise it.”

  Cora sighed. Perhaps her hair was frizzy. “It’s rather worse than that.”

  “Oh, dear. I so wish we could have gone shopping together. It’s a shame I’m leaving tomorrow. But perhaps—”

  Cora shook her head.

  “It isn’t hopeless, my dear,” Veronica said, in her typical worldly manner, even though she was only five months older than Cora.

  There’d been a time when the studio had forced them to spend time together, hoping Cora’s goody two shoes reputation would help the public forget Veronica’s wild one. The public had never forgotten, but somehow Veronica and Cora had become friends.

  Unfortunately, even Veronica couldn’t fix this.

  “It’s hopeless,” Cora said.

  “Did the studio say something?” Veronica asked.

  “Not about my clothes...”

  “Gee!” Veronica plopped down on an emerald tufted bench and clutched hold of the elaborate roll arm. “You don’t mean to tell me that—”

  She understood.

  Thank goodness.

  “I saw the signs,” Veronica admitted. “But I can’t believe they actually...” She moved her hand to her throat, slid her fingers over a shimmering ruby necklace, and then inhaled. “I can’t believe they didn’t invite you to Mr. Bellomo’s birthday party.”

  “What?”

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” Veronica asked. “I know it’s mortifying to be considered so irrelevant.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Oh.” Veronica exhaled. “I’m so pleased. That would have been truly, utterly terrible. I can’t imagine anything worse. At your age, given your history. You know, I was worried for you when I didn’t see your name appear at all in Starlet Magazine this year, and that reference in the Jabberist really didn’t count since it was mostly about me, but...”

  “They fired me,” Cora blurted.

  Veronica blinked. “Fired? For not being mentioned in one of the gossip rags? That’s ridiculous.”

  “That’s not why they fired me.”

  “But the studio’s doing well!” Veronica exclaimed. “Better than ever! It even looks like we’re going to leave this horrid depression.”

  Shame filled Cora. “I don’t think I’m meant to be an actress.”

  “But of course you are!”

  “They didn’t think so,” Cora said softly.

  “That’s rubbish! You’re in the middle of filming.”

  “They already hired my replacement.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Some unknown girl. Mr. Bellomo discovered her in a coffee shop.”

  “My poor dear.” Veronica bit her lower lip. “Perhaps they were being economical.”

  “Perhaps.” Cora tried to say the word confidently and not reflect on the scores of errand boys and legions of other actresses on set. Hollywood seemed to be all about spending money and seemed to have little to do with restraint.

  “There must be some mistake,” Veronica said.

  “Mr. Bellomo confirmed it to me himself.” Cora’s voice definitely wobbled now. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen. Not with seven-year contracts. Not with people who’d achieved fame. She’d starred in pictures. She’d been “The Gal Detective.” She hadn’t expected—this. “He said I’d been chosen as a child actress for my ability to follow directions. To be still and learn my lines. And now—now I can’t compete with the girls who went to high school, who experienced life...”

  Cora yanked her purse open and grabbed hold of her handkerchief.

  “Oh, honey.” Veronica waved her hand in such a languid gesture that Cora wondered whether she’d practiced it.

  Sometimes Cora thought it a pity that Veronica was too young to have been a silent screen queen.

  Veronica fluttered her fingers over her brow, and rings sparkled. “The world is really too cruel. One might expect it in Houston, but Hollywood? How positively horrid. We’ll just figure something else for you. Fortunately, there are other studios in town. We’ll get you to an even better one. MGM or Paramount. And you’re quite a darling dancer. Maybe RKO will take you. You can play Ginger Rogers’ rival in her films with Fred Astaire.”

  “I don’t remember her ever having a rival—”

  “All the better.” Veronica’s eyes glimmered, and Cora began to feel more hopeful.

  Veronica was right. There were other studios.

  “You do have talent,” said Veronica. “No matter what Mr. Bellomo says. You mustn’t forget.”

  Cora nodded.

  “Isn’t it most exciting though?” Veronica beamed. “It’s so important to have life experiences. Unemployment seems to be something so many people these days are facing.”

  “They call this the Great Depression.”

  “But would I know it?” Veronica waved at her marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and modern furniture. “I read about it in the newspapers. But you, you can really experience it. So very worldly.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” Cora said. “I have to pay rent, and—”

  “You do have your parents, honey. You’re no orphan. Surely they can put you up while you look for something.”

  “I would rather not ask them.”

  Veronica nodded thoughtfully.

  Cora had considered petitioning to break away from her parents after they’d spent most of her money on furs, an always questionable purchase in Southern California, and cars, which had some practicality, though the curvaceous front fenders and glittering wheels were less necessary.

  “I have rooms galore,” Veronica said. “You could stay here.”

  Cora perked up.

  “But... I might have to sell the property. Edmund’s parents are quite tiresome. Most dismissive of Hollywood and its supposed lack of morals.” Veronica’s lips turned into a perfect pout. “You’d think they were really farmers in Wyoming and not members of the English aristocracy.”

  “They didn’t approve of the elopement?”

  “Honey, they abhorred it. They should be kneeling down before me, thanking me for saving them so much money for the wedding. Though I suppose they could afford it.” Veronica smiled. “You could always hide under one of these gigantic beds if the house is sold. Call yourself the Ghost of Bel Air. Just fling over a white sheet if you see anyone.” She clapped her hands. “I’ll be sure to tell the gossip columnists that the place is haunted, so no one suspects it’s merely occupied by an-out-of-work actress!”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Well, I suppose sheets are even less becoming than Stetson hats.” Veronica tapped scarlet fingernails against a marble side table. “Perhaps you can come with me.”

  “To England?”

  “Why naturally! Where else? Edmund will be delighted that I’ll have company on the crossing. And it will be nice to have someone decent to speak to. Edmund’s relatives are all so dreadful. Most unamused about absolutely everything.”

  Europe was miles away, filled with people who criticized the American way of doing things and from which emanated all manner of dramatic headlines.

  “Just because you’ve developed an appalling habit of being boring, does not mean you have to remain that way. If I’d never changed...” Veronica’s face took on a faraway look, and Cora wondered whether she was thinking of the sordid childhood she’d been rumored to have before being discovered. Veronica shook her head. “Well, we’ll just have to fix that.”

  “I couldn’t do that.”

  “Oh, do say you’ll come. It will be most picturesque. Edmund’s parents have a manor house in England. Quite remote from reporters. There will be snow and Christmas carolers and all those other things. It’s in a place called Yorkshire.”

  “It sounds cold.”

  “That’s why blankets were invented, honey. Besides, isn’t your grandmother Engl
ish? It will be like coming home.”

  “My great aunt lives there,” Cora said, “and I’ve never met her.”

  “Then you must meet her,” Veronica exclaimed. “Where does she live? London? York?”

  “I believe a place called Sussex?”

  Veronica’s frown was instantaneous. “That’s the very bottom of England. Apparently, it’s pleasant, but from the pictures I’ve seen, the grass is a far paler shade than that of Yorkshire. One wonders whether it can be termed green at all. And I suppose great aunts can scarcely be considered family.”

  Cora nodded, though her stomach tightened uncomfortably.

  Perhaps Great Aunt Maggie was a distant relative, but apart from her parents, she was the only relative Cora had.

  “You should still come with me. You’ll be utterly anonymous.” Veronica flashed two rows of well-maintained white teeth.

  Anonymous.

  Cora tested the word out in her mind, but the negative connotation seemed to roar back.

  “How grand,” she said. “But I’m not sure—”

  “It will be such fun,” Veronica hastened to say. “No press at all. You can go about in some dusty old tweed like the locals. Not a single sparkle. And at night, you can stay at Chalcroft Park. All quite smashing. And not in the least like a normal park. None of the picnic basket carrying crowd. Just a great big old house. It’s terribly out of fashion—all turrets and gables, and it has loads of land that the sheep trim themselves.”

  “Isn’t Europe supposed to be dangerous?”

  “Nonsense. I know some journalists are quite insistent on depicting Hitler in the most revolting tones, but honestly, they’re writers. It’s practically their job to exaggerate! And they’re old, and we all know how old people like to drone on and on and on about how much better things were in the past. Besides, think how much worse things were in the last generation. All those brawny farmers drowning in mud on dreary battlefields in Belgium and France. What could possibly be worse? And those chemical attacks. Utterly monstrous. I’ll take Hitler any day. Edmund’s father can explain it all to you. He’s quite passionate on the subject. One really mustn’t be upset at the Germans for wanting to rebuild their army after it got demolished in the last war.”