Miner's Daughter

by Duncan, Alice

  Madame Dunbar’s studio consisted of a suite of rooms in the upstairs of her magnificent home on the corner of Foothill Boulevard and Maiden Lane. The house was a palace to Mari’s eyes. She suspected it would seem so to anyone who’d lived her life in a one-room cabin. It took all her strength of will not to tiptoe around the edges of the carpeting for fear of doing something hick-like. She was very ill at ease.

  Also, it was embarrassing to have Tony staring critically at her every time she walked out of the dressing room into the fitting parlor, clad in another costume she was supposed to wear in Lucky Strike. One of the ensembles consisted of trousers and an old plaid shirt, not unlike the clothes Mari wore on a daily basis. For some reason, while she’d never been embarrassed to be seen clad thus in Mojave Wells, today she felt like a flaming idiot when she had to parade in front of Tony and Madame Dunbar.

  The fact that Madame D stood against a wall, tapping her foot impatiently, arms crossed over her chest, and scowling up a storm didn’t soothe Mari’s nerves. It didn’t help, either, when the seamstress would huff something in French that sounded vaguely blasphemous, storm over to Mari, and tug at a pleat here or a seam there.

  Mari felt like a child’s toy, being yanked this way and that. Independent her whole life, feeling like somebody else’s property was a new and unpleasant experience for her. She got through it, but not without her mood sinking until it wallowed in a swamp of dismal thoughts. She’d seldom been so glad as she was when the fitting session ended, and Tony and the artiste left her alone in the fitting salon. She felt like a soggy mop as she put on the clothes Tony had bought for her on Olvera Street.

  However, as she gazed at the transformed Mari in the mirror of Madame Dunbar’s elaborate dressing suite, she decided she’d been too hard on Tony Ewing.

  Maybe.

  She guessed she could buy the part about Peerless wanting its newest actress to dress like a success, both on and off the set. But it still didn’t feel right to be having a man buy clothes for her. She had a feeling her mother would have been shocked. Mari sure as heck knew she was shocked.

  It was difficult, though, when she saw the image of herself reflected in the polished glass, to care much. She’d never looked this good before. And the ensemble was really plain, too. Heck, she could do this herself, and it wouldn’t even cost much. The smashing effect had been created by a simple peasant blouse, a brightly colored skirt, and that red sash, which, as Tony had predicted, brought the ensemble together as a whole. All she needed now was one of those crepe-paper flowers behind one of her ears, and she’d look so exotic, she wouldn’t even recognize herself.

  She produced a mental image of herself waltzing into the Mojave Inn one evening—make it a Friday or Saturday night, when more of her neighbors were apt to be dining out—and knocking everyone dead with her new and stunning self.

  “I wish Pa was here to see me,” she murmured at her reflection.

  But he wasn’t. And her mother wasn’t here. And none of her friends or other relatives was here. The only person she’d be able to impress here in Altadena was Tony Ewing. Didn’t sound likely to her.

  Nevertheless, with that thought in mind, Mari sucked in a deep breath, made sure everything that was supposed to be tucked in had been, patted her hair, which was knotted at the back of her neck as usual, lifted her skirt, noticed her scruffy shoes, lowered the skirt again, and sighed.

  “Fiddlesticks.” She wished, as long as Tony was flinging money around, he’d, thought to fling some at a shoe salesman.

  But there was nothing to be done about her footwear at this point, so she squared her shoulders and headed for the door. She knew that Tony and Madame Dunbar awaited her in the huge parlor. To get there, she had to descend a flight of stairs leading to an enormous front reception hall. So be it. At the head of the staircase, she gripped the banister and, after thinking about it for a second or two and deciding it would be worse to tumble down the staircase than reveal her shabby shoes, she lifted her skirt and started down the stairs.

  Tony stood at the foot of the staircase. Mari frowned when she saw him gazing up at her. “I thought you were going to wait for me in the parlor.”

  “I heard the door open upstairs and decided to anticipate your arrival. Madame Dunbar has tea for us in the parlor.”

  Mari’d been kind of hoping she’d walk into the parlor and Tony would be struck speechless by her amazing transformation. She was disappointed to discover that life hadn’t taken a magical turn for her. Tony looked the same as ever. Handsome as sin and impervious to any charms Mari might possess. It was quite discouraging, actually.

  The staircase flattened out into a small polished platform—Tony had told her the staircase had been designed specifically for the display of Madame Dunbar’s creations during her semi-annual fashion shows—and three more stairs set to the left of the platform led into the hall. As Mari reached the platform, Tony held out his arm for her. She laid her hand on his arm in a way she’d seen illustrated in pictures, and walked in as stately a manner as she could summon.

  On the inside, she felt crummy. She’d so hoped to make some kind of impression on this wealthy man of the world. Only went to show, one more time, how stupid she was.

  “You look gorgeous, Mari,” Tony said conversationally. “I knew you would:’

  His words stopped her in her tracks, although they didn’t stop him, and he kept walking. Their elbows locked and jerked, and he glanced back at her with his eyebrows raised. Mari scurried to catch up with him, embarrassed. “Thank you.”

  He’d known she would? Look gorgeous? Was he kidding her? She wanted to ask, but knew she’d only appear foolish if she did. It was hard keeping her mouth shut, though. She’d not had much practice in keeping her thoughts to herself. Of course, it didn’t generally matter, since the only one around to hear her unless she had visitors was Tiny. Tiny didn’t care what anybody said, as long as they said it around him.

  Even Madame Dunbar, who sat ramrod straight in a fancy medallion-backed armchair, lifted one of her aristocratic eyebrows and nodded her approval at Mari’s altered state. Was this a triumph? Mari was so darned nervous, she couldn’t tell, although she was glad she looked okay.

  “Thanks for seeing us today, Madame Dunbar,” Tony said, oozing politeness.

  Mari squinted at him and wondered why he never sounded that nice when he was talking to her.

  “Bah! Is nothing.” The woman waved Tony’s apology away as if she were shooing off a pesky fly. “Peerless has been good to me.”

  For some reason, the dressmaker’s artless comment made a bunch of things come together in Mari’s head. It was the first time she’d fully recognized the impact the motion-picture industry was beginning to have on the overall economy in those places where pictures were made.

  It only made sense. Picture people needed sets, costumers, makeup artists, camera people, cameras, automobiles, hair stylists, set designers, set builders, story writers, artists to paint the subtitles, and God alone knew how many other folks besides actors to create their product.

  Not to mention the businesses cropping up on the sidelines, trying to profit from the public’s fascination with the pictures and the people in them. Why, there were magazines, theaters and people to operate them, writers, and who knew what else besides. Goodness gracious, the enormity of it boggled Mari’s mind.

  “Don’t you think so, Mari?”

  Mari, who’d been occupied with her own thoughts and not paying attention to the conversation between Tony and Madame Dunbar, jumped in her seat and spilled some tea into her saucer, Doggone it! She cleared her throat, tried to pretend she wasn’t blushing, and said, “Um, I beg your pardon? My mind was, um, wandering a little.” She gave Madame Dunbar a smile she hoped was sweet. The woman didn’t acknowledge by so much as a twitch of her nose, the witch.

  “I said,” Tony said, sounding exasperated—nothing new there, “that it would be a good thing for Madame Dunbar to create a couple of dresses for y
ou to wear in public. Like the one you’re wearing now, only for different occasions.”

  Mari stared at him, holding her cup and saucer very still in her hands. What did this mean? Was this a legitimate business suggestion, or was he trying to batter away at her integrity by bribing her.

  She scoffed even as she thought it. Why in the name of glory would he do that? He’d thus far demonstrated no interest whatever in her, except as a commodity.

  “Um . . .”

  Tony turned to Madame Dunbar. “She’s too damned independent, you see, Madame. She thinks we’re trying corrupt her or something.”

  “Now, wait a minute, Tiny—I mean Tony. I . . .”

  Madame Dunbar laughed. Her laugh came out a silvery tinkle, which didn’t go with her stern demeanor, and Mari’s confusion mounted. “Silly little thing.”

  “But—”

  “Precious, though.” The dressmaker gave Mari the approving look she might bestow on a cunningly crafted ensemble.

  Mari gulped audibly.

  “She doesn’t yet understand that the public’s eye has become focused on the pictures and on the people who play in them. A studio, in order to protect and promote its product, has to have attractive stars.”

  “But . . .” Good God, did that mean he considered her unattractive in her native state? Mari’s heart pinged painfully. But she couldn’t be too hideous, or Martin would never have asked her to act in his silly picture. Would he?

  “Ah, the child is young,” Madame Dunbar said to Tony, ignoring Mari. Which was all right, since Mari couldn’t produce a coherent thought to save herself “She’ll learn. And I shall be happy”—she pronounced it ‘appy—“to create two gowns for her. I’ll ‘ave them ready in a week.”

  “That’s great. Thanks a lot.” Tony grinned at the dressmaker, jerked his head in Mari’s direction, stood up, and said, “We’ve got to be going now Thanks for all your help, Madame.”

  “Certainly.” Madame Dunbar rose, too.

  Mari wondered if they’d even notice if she remained where she was, fading into the upholstery along with her teacup and her red sash.

  But, no. At last, after blathering for another few minutes about costumes and pictures and other things Mari didn’t understand, Tony turned to her. “Ready, Mari? We’ve got to get back to L.A. I telephoned the Melrose Hotel from Madame’s telephone room and reserved a couple of rooms. We can stop there to wash up, and then I’ll take you out to eat. There are some pretty good restaurants in L.A. They’re nowhere near as good as those you can find in New York or San Francisco, but you probably won’t care about that.”

  The smile he gave her took some of the sting out of his words. As Mari arose from her chair—quite gracefully, if she did say so herself—she thought morosely that he was right, no matter how much his words hurt.

  She wouldn’t know a first-class restaurant from a hole the ground except that she’d not yet been intimidated by a hole in the ground. The mere thought of dining in a fancy restaurant sent shivers up her spine.

  Tony held her arm as he led her through Madame Dunbar’s sun porch, out onto the flagged patio, and onward to his great big Pierce Grand Arrow parked on the circular driveway. She was thinking hard the whole way and didn’t utter a peep. Neither of the others seemed to notice. They were too busy blabbing.

  After Tony had started the engine, the motorcar had roared to life, and he took a sweeping turn around the drive, past a lovely rose garden lined with some kind of plant with small white flowers that smelled heavenly, Mari decided to say what she’d been thinking. She didn’t want to, mainly because she didn’t trust her present companion not to make her feel ridiculous for speaking of such things.

  “Um, Tony?”

  He peered at her. He looked happy and relaxed. Mari wished she were. “Yes, Mari? Did you like Madame Dunbar?”

  Glad for a brief reprieve, she shrugged. “What’s not to like? I guess she does a good job.”

  “She does a great job.” He glanced at her again, and his smile vanished. “You sound glum. What’s wrong?”

  Another shrug. “Nothing’s wrong. I . . . well, I just wanted to ask you something.”

  He appeared taken aback for a couple of seconds, then said, “Sure. Ask away. Is something bothering you?” He sounded honestly concerned, and Mari appreciated it. She felt stupid and awkward.

  “Well, I—” Darn it, she was going to cry! She hated her emotional makeup. It was so demeaning to cry in front of people like Tony Ewing; people who already thought she was a dumb bumpkin. She swallowed hard and forced herself to hold back her tears. This was so embarrassing. After taking a deep breath and holding it until she was pretty sure her voice wouldn’t break, she blurted out, “Would you teach me how to act?”

  He stared at her. “Teach you how to act?”

  Not trusting her voice, she nodded, trying all the while to appear casual.

  He frowned and turned back to survey the paved road in front of him. Most of the streets in Pasadena and Altadena over which they’d driven were paved. “I’m no acting coach, Mari. That’s Martin’s department. I’m only here to watch my father’s money.”

  Bother. She hadn’t expressed herself correctly, and he’d misunderstood. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “No?” Again, he turned and looked at her. She wished he wasn’t so darned good looking. It would be ever so much easier to ask this of a plain man.

  “No.”

  Squinting at her once more before returning his attention to the road, Tony said, “I don’t think I understand.”

  “I know you don’t.” She heaved a dispirited sigh.

  “Want to explain? Act what? Act how? I don’t know what you mean.”

  Mari’s frustrations finally bubbled over. “Darn it! I’m asking you to teach me how to behave!” Now she felt beleaguered, put-upon, and angry, and the focus of all of her feelings sat behind the wheel of his expensive car, pretending not to understand what she was telling him. Mari turned on him. “Darn it, Tony Ewing, you’re the one who keeps calling me a rude country bumpkin.”

  His eyes popped wide open. “I don’t, either!”

  “You do, too! You criticize me constantly. Everything I do is wrong to you! You even think you have to buy clothes for me to wear, because I’m not good enough to be seen in public with you otherwise.”

  “Well . . .”

  “And it’s not fair! I can’t help it if I grew up poor. It’s not my fault my father wasn’t a rich millionaire!”

  “What other kind is there?” Tony muttered under his breath.

  “Don’t you dare make fun of me!”

  Even though she was looking at his profile, she saw him roll his eyes.

  “And don’t do that, either! I’m asking you to do me favor, blast you! And it isn’t an easy thing for me to do, either, since I know very well what you think of me.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Oh, yes I do.” She lowered her voice to a menacing pitch. “You hate me. You hate the very thought of me. You think I’m beneath you.”

  “Oh, for God’s—”

  “Don’t interrupt me!” She’d gone shrill again. “Well, instead of picking on me all the time, why don’t you teach me what to do? Huh? Why don’t you try that for once?”

  Mari threw herself back against the seat cushion, huffed furiously, crossed her arms over her breasts, sucked in a gallon of air flavored with the sweet smell of orange blossoms, clamped her teeth together, commanded herself not to cry, and fumed. She felt so godawful stupid about her tantrum, she couldn’t bear to think about it, so she dwelt instead on the injustice Tony Ewing had done her ever since their first meeting.

  The conceited so-and-so. Who did he think he was, anyway? God Almighty? Well, he wasn’t. He was just the stuck-up son of a city snob who had more money than brains, and Mari wasn’t going to take it anymore.

  “Okay.”

  Mari’s whole body jerked as if her bones had been replaced by clock springs. She jumped
about a foot and swiveled on the plush seat so fast, she nearly gave herself whiplash. “What?”

  Tony turned his head slightly and frowned at her. “You needn’t screech anymore, Mari. I said okay. I think that’s a good idea.”

  What? What did he think was a good idea? Mari’s brain was so scrambled, she couldn’t even remember what she’d hollered at him.

  “I reject absolutely that nonsense about me hating you, but I do think you have a sound idea there. If you’re taught what’s expected of you in public, you’ll be less apt to feel uncomfortable when the picture opens and you have to attend premieres and parties and so forth.”

  “What—” She had to stop and clear her throat. “What’s a premiere?” For that matter, what was a party? The town of Mojave Wells, whose inhabitants were sociable and liked each other, didn’t go in much for formal parties and so forth. Somebody’d host a picnic or a barbecue from time to time, but a party? Mari couldn’t recall ever attending one.

  Tony honored her with a brief smile. Mari recognized the smile as the type a teacher might bestow on a slow student who was performing slightly better than usual. Her heart, which had been racing and hammering and behaving in a manner not generally accepted of hearts, slowed and started to sink.

  Good God in heaven, what had she done now? Why had she opened her darned mouth? And, if she had to open her mouth, why had she yelled at Tony? No matter how foolish and inadequate she felt in his company, her feelings weren’t his fault. If there was any fault at all in the circumstances separating them, it was accidental. He couldn’t help it if she’d been born poor any more than she could help it that he’d been born rich.

  It was for darned sure that neither of them could go back before their births and make their backgrounds more equitable. Mari had a wretched feeling that’s what she was really mad about.

  She wanted to be Tony Ewing’s equal, socially, intellectually, and financially. She wanted to know if he could care for her if their backgrounds weren’t so blasted different. She wanted to stand a fighting chance to win his affection.