Calamity Under the Chandelier

by Camilla Blythe

  The trees were bare, and the sky gray. Brown leaves covered the ground, and the grass was a similar dull color. On occasion, tall trees arched gnarly branches toward the cloud-spattered heavens. They sat majestically, incognizant they hadn’t been replaced with a vegetable patch merely because of their location on the property’s border.

  Stone manor houses seemed to crown each hill, overseeing the inconsistently sized fields and small cottages covered with soot.

  “From the coal mines,” Veronica explained, evidently noticing Cora’s gaze. “It’s on everything. Edmund’s family owns a mine. It’s the largest in England.”

  “How impressive.”

  Veronica’s cheeks pinkened, and she dipped her head downward and fumbled in her bag.

  “You seem so proud,” Cora teased.

  “Nonsense.” Veronica removed her powder case and began retouching makeup that already looked immaculate. She glanced back at Cora. “You were supposed to stop smiling. It’s just, I might be famous—”

  “Very famous.”

  “But Edmund—he’s respectable. He comes from a good family. Perhaps it’s silly, but I quite like being associated with it. Imagine, we’re having Christmas in the same manor house that his family has been having Christmas in for generations.”

  “And he’s an earl,” Cora added.

  “And one day, he’ll be a duke,” Veronica said, her voice once again decidedly dreamy.

  The train slowed.

  “We’re here.” Veronica stood, and Cora followed her to the train’s exit.

  The station was empty.

  “I imagine Edmund is waiting in the car,” Veronica said. “The man despises crowds. How do I look?”

  “Perfect.”

  Veronica beamed. “This is a big moment. It’s been two months since I last saw him.”

  Veronica practically skipped from the platform, and Cora picked up both of their bags. The air felt heavy and frigid, and she was glad when her traveling companion stopped beneath an awning to survey the station. Victorian swirls and floral shapes had been formed into the metal, and Cora glanced upward.

  “If you think that’s impressive, honey,” Veronica drawled, “wait until you see the house.”

  “Perhaps I should get the smelling salts out,” Cora said.

  “Perhaps.”

  A short man in a uniform and funny hat stepped onto the platform and swept into a deep bow. “Ah, Lady Holt.” He turned to Cora. “And Miss Clarke, is it?”

  Cora nodded, as the man once again moved his torso toward the ground.

  “What’s your name?”

  The man laughed. “I am the local constable. I make this area safe. Constable Kirby, at your service.”

  Cora glanced around, taking in the sharply sloped hills. Stone walls, which looked like they had been constructed centuries before, were the only structures. She’d never been to a more isolated area. “Surely it cannot be very dangerous here?”

  “Don’t you worry.” The constable ran his fingers over the lapels of his coat, and his lips spread into a wide smile. “No murderer dares make trouble here. Now, Lady Holt, would you like me to drive you two to Chalcroft Park?

  “How very kind of you,” Veronica murmured. “But I am certain that my husband is here.”

  “Right. Naturally.” The man’s eyes glazed, as most men seemed to do in Veronica’s presence, as if they were in the midst of admiring the planes of her face and the wide placement of her large blue eyes, rather than devoting energy to listening to her.

  “Would you like an autograph?” Veronica said benevolently.

  Her question did not seem to have the desired effect.

  The pace at which the constable’s face became red seemed too brisk. “It’s—er—possible I may not have actually seen you in the movies.”

  “No?”

  “Though I would have if I’d known you would become the new countess,” the man rushed to add. “The family is most important. Some people don’t like them, because of all the deaths they caused in the last century, but I think it’s splendid that we’ve got our own duke and duchess now. Makes this region seem right proper. Just like York. Even Harrogate doesn’t have its own duke.”

  “Oh,” Veronica’s smile wobbled. “That’s nice.”

  Cora frowned. “What deaths did the family cause?”

  The constable opened his mouth, but Veronica grabbed Cora’s arm. “I think that’s my husband! Let’s go.”

  A red candy-colored Rolls Royce sat outside the train station.

  “Is that the car?”

  “It must be new,” Veronica said. “Look how exquisite it is.”

  The cream-colored wheels and silver grating contrasted beautifully with the car’s vibrant color.

  “Edmund!” Veronica waved.

  A head peeked from the window.

  A head that seemed distinctly...unmasculine.

  Veronica halted, and her face whitened. “Audrey. I mean—Lady Audrey.”

  The woman waved. “Yes, my dear.”

  Veronica smiled, but no matter how many acting accolades Veronica had received, this smile was too tight. A director would have scolded her for it, but this was real life, and Veronica continued toward Lady Audrey.

  The woman was perhaps in her early thirties. Her hair was cut in an unfashionable, practical bob, as if she were still in the last decade and was not aware that everyone was growing out their hair into softer waves. Cora wondered if the short length was more to prohibit needing to style her hair than for a desire to be dramatic. Lady Audrey’s skin was tanned and freckled, and she wore a checked tweed jacket that looked like it had seen several seasons. Cora felt overdressed in her fur-collared coat, though she couldn’t afford the triple strand of pearls that dangled casually around Lady Audrey’s neck. Some paint was splattered on Lady Audrey’s gloves, and Cora remembered that she was an artist.

  The woman rose languidly and waved an elegant hand vaguely in their direction. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Holt.”

  “How nice to see you, Lady Audrey,” Veronica said.

  Veronica might be a great actress, and she may even have been nominated for an Oscar once, but she wasn’t even attempting to curve her lips into a smile. They were pressed together in icy formality.

  Lady Audrey moved her fingers through her hair, as if to smooth it, but she only managed to make her bob appear more misshapen. Cora couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.

  “I do hope you have a good time, Miss Clarke.” Lady Audrey directed her attention away from Veronica. “Do ignore our stodgy habits.”

  “I’m sure you don’t have any,” Cora said.

  “Nonsense. I certainly couldn’t imagine being in Hollywood.”

  “It does require an abundance of glamor,” Veronica mused, and Lady Audrey’s face blushed pink, despite her ample freckles.

  “You must show me your painting sometime,” Cora said, changing the subject.

  Most artists Cora knew were happy to show people their work, extrapolating over the wonders of their composition technique or color palette.

  “Perhaps you can show us once we arrive?” Veronica said sweetly. “Goodness knows we can use some culture after our long period of travel.”

  “Um—” If Lady Audrey normally displayed poise, she seemed to have a dearth of it now.

  “Where is my husband?” Veronica asked.

  “Edmund’s at Chalcroft Park. He would have loved to have fetched you, but the man is busy.”

  “Naturally,” Veronica said tersely.

  The car sped over narrow roads. At times steep hedges loomed on either side, obscuring the landscape, as if to ensure Lady Audrey would not decide to suddenly pull the vehicle into a vegetable patch.

  The trees fared no better than those in New York. The few present seemed to consist entirely of dark brown trunks and branches. Their leaves, when they had any, were shriveled up and a dull orange, as if somebody had set fire to them, instead of them simply bei
ng battered by the obviously incessant blustery wind. A few pine trees stood in the distance, but their green needles, which pointed downward, hardly sufficed in bringing more color to the world.

  “It’s good you came before the snow,” Lady Audrey said.

  Cora glanced at the sky, trying to discern any snowflakes, but all she saw were thick clouds in varying degrees of gray.

  Shortly after, though, snow began drifting down, smattering over every slope.

  The car swept through valleys, avoiding the occasional steep hill, until finally it clambered upward.

  Veronica pointed. “Chalcroft Park.”

  Cora followed the direction of Veronica’s finger. The hill seemed empty, but a sliver of pale gray grew steadily larger.

  Gray should have been a dull color, but the manor house looked more imposing than anything she’d ever seen.

  “It’s beautiful,” Cora breathed, taking in turrets and gables. It even had a moat.

  The landscape here seemed solemn, almost primeval.

  Majestic trees jutted from the groomed lawn. Gold leaves shimmered under the setting sun, crowning the almost bare lofty branches in glory as snow fluttered down elegantly.

  The wheels crunched on gravel, and Lady Audrey stopped the engine. They exited the car as servants rushed toward them.

  Chapter Three

  THE MANOR HOUSE WAS even more splendid on close perusal, and Cora felt every bit as naïve as the people who arrived in Hollywood from rural communities in geometrically shaped states. Everything appeared fascinating, even though Cora had the distinct impression most visitors here might not wonder at the beauty of the pond or the long stretches of grass, broken up only by majestic chestnut trees.

  Cora tilted her head upward, enjoying the whispering of the wind. Tips of the slopes seemed to recede into the dark gray sky.

  “They say Yorkshire is God’s country,” Lady Audrey said, perhaps observing Cora’s delight. “It’s the closest thing to perfection.”

  “That must explain why you’re here, and not in London with the rest of your set,” Veronica said.

  Lady Audrey’s face fell, and Cora sighed.

  Veronica could be brusque. She tended to view most women with suspicion.

  Perhaps Veronica didn’t like Lady Audrey, but Cora had known Veronica long enough to know that did not necessarily have anything to do with Lady Audrey’s personality.

  “It was kind of you to pick us up,” Cora assured Lady Audrey.

  “I thought you might prefer me to a servant. They are grumbling about snow so much, though these snowflakes scarcely seem threatening.”

  “I’ve never seen snow before,” Cora confessed.

  “You really are American,” Lady Audrey said. “How charming! So very quaint.”

  “I mean, I’ve seen it on the tops of mountains on occasion,” Cora said. “But I’ve never touched it.”

  “You can do so now,” Lady Audrey said.

  “Yes.” Cora removed her gloves and let the snowflakes fall onto her hands. Delight thrummed through her. “It’s wet and cold and—”

  “Just like snow,” Veronica said drily. “I’m going to find Edmund.”

  She headed toward the entrance, and they followed her over a small bridge that extended over a moat.

  “It’s a castle,” Cora exclaimed.

  “It is not old enough to have been used for defensive purposes. And some wings of the home are positively respectable. No turrets at all.”

  The butler opened the door before they reached it. The manor house might be magnificent, but Cora shivered, conscious of the possible appearance of people from behind the dark wooden columns.

  “Lady Holt.” The butler held the door, shoulders square and chin stoic. His ebony uniform seemed to soak up the ambient light shining from the hallway. With his dark clothing and dour expression, he appeared as though he was perpetually prepared for anything, even sudden tragedies.

  “Hello, Wexley,” Veronica said breezily. “This is my friend, Cora Clarke.”

  “Welcome to Chalcroft Park.” The butler lowered his torso into a bow and managed to imbue his baritone voice with gravitas. “I hope you find your stay amenable.”

  Cora followed Veronica inside.

  The place retained its fairytale look inside.

  Stained glass windows cast blue and red reflections of prettily patterned flowers and plants onto dark wooden floorboards that gleamed from obviously carefully applied polish. Majestic Victorian furniture dotted the hall, and Cora felt like she’d stepped onto a set of the very most expensive production, but unlike those, this was absolutely real.

  “It’s like a dream,” she murmured.

  “I feel the same way,” Veronica whispered.

  Veronica’s worldliness made it easy to forget that she’d come from an impoverished background, but in moments like this, Cora remembered it.

  And now Veronica was wed to an earl, she was a countess, and one day she would become a duchess.

  This whole place would be hers.

  It was so heavenly. So exquisite. So perfect.

  Cora tried to absorb every single detail.

  This wasn’t just a set that would be dismantled a week later. This wasn’t just a prettily painted backdrop, and the people were not just wearing the same clothes they’d worn on a different movie.

  No.

  This was real life.

  And it was perfect.

  “Are you trailing snow into the house?” a voice boomed.

  Cora stiffened, and Veronica swirled around.

  An elderly man in a burgundy robe tottered on the landing above them. He had a thick mustache and the cord of his monocle flapped against his gaunt face. He grasped hold of the banister, as if he’d managed to assign most of his energy to scowling rather than standing.

  Veronica raised her chin. “It’s hardly snowed at all.”

  “You should not do that,” he continued. “The floors are old.”

  “A little water won’t hurt them,” Veronica said in her normal breezy voice. “It’s nothing they don’t go through when they’re being cleaned.”

  The man’s already wrinkled nose developed new creases, and he huffed. “This house wouldn’t have survived if my ancestors had possessed such a flippant, American attitude.”

  Veronica inhaled, and if Cora did not know that Veronica despised arithmetic, she would have thought she was counting.

  “Your Grace,” Veronica said, “may I please present my dearest friend, Miss Cora Clarke?”

  This is the duke?

  No wonder Veronica had termed him to be not very welcoming.

  Cora sank into an awkward curtsy.

  “Hmph,” the duke muttered and wandered away. His slippers squeaked on the landing above.

  A maid appeared to assist Veronica and Cora in removing the offending coats and boots that had caused the duke such distress.

  The door opened behind them, and Lady Audrey appeared.

  “Where were you?” Veronica asked.

  “Just parking the car,” Lady Audrey said.

  “Right.” Veronica frowned. “Let’s go.”

  Cora followed Veronica into the drawing room.

  The room smelled deliciously of pine needles. Garlands were strung about the ceiling, and a large Christmas tree shimmered with brightly colored ornaments.

  “Darling!” a man’s voice sounded, and Veronica’s face lit up.

  She dashed toward the newcomer, and he spun her around in his sturdy arms.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “This is Cora Clarke,” Veronica said, still resting in the man’s embrace. “She was one of the actresses with whom I worked for years. Cora, this is my husband.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” murmured Cora.

  “How was your journey?” Lord Holt asked.

  “The ship was far too slow.” Veronica tilted her head up to him as if for him to kiss her, but he gave her a peck on her cheek.

  “The s
ervants are around,” Lord Holt said.

  “Oh.” Veronica managed to look confused, but her husband squeezed her hands.

  “You can greet my mother.” He led them to the other side of the room.

  For some reason, Cora had expected Veronica’s husband to be more dynamic. Lord Holt was tall, but his amble seemed hesitant, as if his limbs resented their extra length. Veronica had a habit of being linked to the most smashing male leads, the men who graced magazines with maddening frequency, even though they never seemed to manage to have so much as a shirt to accompany them on their photo shoots.

  No doubt Lord Holt’s title and wealth made up for his lack of regular features and the absence of a chin, and perhaps he thought the utter absence of imperfections on Veronica’s features might render handsome children.

  Lord Holt halted before an older woman. “Mother, may I present Miss Cora Clarke? Miss Clarke this is Her Grace, the Duchess of Hawley.”

  “How do you do?” the woman said, scarcely lifting her gaze from her book, and Cora noted the trace of an Eastern European accent.

  Cora had been expecting a woman with gray hair to match that of the duke, but the duchess had rich auburn hair. She had none of her son’s uncertainty and wore a bold emerald dress that highlighted slender ankles. The dress was most likely Parisian, instead of the kind hastily made from cheap, if shiny, fabric favored by budget-conscious Hollywood producers.

  Veronica tossed her hair. “Hello, Ma.”

  The woman’s exquisitely plucked eyebrows rose and for a moment, Cora thought the duchess would roll her eyes. Instead, the duchess gave Veronica an icy smile. “I do hope you enjoyed the elopement.”

  “A night with your son—what’s not to adore?” Veronica asked.

  The duchess swallowed hard.

  Voices sounded from the foyer.

  “Ah... It must be the Italian gentleman.” The duchess rushed toward the door, hurrying over the Oriental carpets. “Signor Palombi! Welcome.”

  A man stepped into the room. Cora had envisioned him with a forceful attitude and a bulging figure that came from making business deals over steak.

  The man she saw did not seem to possess either of those qualities. His figure was trim, and his facial features were of such regular size that they could, like the Duchess of Hawley’s bone structure, be termed pleasing.