by Rhys Bowen
I didn’t miss the daggers look that shot from Mrs. Goldman. So she was all too aware of Stella Brightwell’s role in his life. I wondered what she must think about having his mistress with him so openly.
“That’s right,” Cy said. “I promised these people a tour of the house. Then these young British aristocrats can tell me if it’s better than their stately homes. It damned well better be, the money I’ve spent on it.” He clapped his hands. “Come on, then. Follow me. House tour coming up.”
He led us up the long flight of marble steps and opened a massive studded oak front door. We stepped into the cool darkness of an entrance hall two stories high. Weapons decorated the walls and the vaulted ceiling was hung with ancient banners. The whole effect reminded me sharply of Castle Rannoch.
“Follow me,” Cy said. Our footsteps echoed from the high ceiling as we crossed that foyer. On either side there were alcoves, decorated with classical statues that really didn’t go with the weapons hanging above them. Then Cy pushed open a door and we entered a sitting room, rather like the one I had left at Kingsdowne Place, with a great marble fireplace at its center.
“Recognize this?” Cy said with a triumphant grin. “It came from one of your British houses. Lord something or other. You should have seen the job they had getting it up the hill. Took a team of oxen to pull it.”
One magnificent room after another followed. There were paintings on oak-paneled walls, statues in corners, suits of armor, archways, beamed ceilings. . . . And the interesting thing was that none of it really belonged together, almost like items laid out ready for an auction. It was as Mummy had said, a Gothic fantasy. Cy was beaming like a proud child. “Designed the whole thing myself,” he said. “Not bad for a boy who came to the States with nothing. Who was glad to get a job selling newspapers.”
“Cyrus,” Mrs. Goldman said in her strident voice. “So what about those other things that you told me you’d found in Spain? Didn’t I hear you’d bought candlesticks? And an El Greco?”
“So you’re suddenly interested in antiques? Or did you hear how much they’re worth?” He looked back at her, almost gloating in his expression. “I got them for a steal, if you’re worried about how much I paid—this convent had no idea what they were. That El Greco was hanging behind a side altar in their chapel. Their roof was leaking and their plumbing wasn’t working and they were happy to get those things fixed. But you wait until you see them, Helen. Exquisite.”
He quickened his pace, led us into a narrow side hall. I gasped as I saw a figure looming over me with an ax raised. Then I realized it was only another suit of armor. “Watch out for that guy,” Cy called jovially. “He’s my guard. He dispatches people I don’t like.” He went ahead and opened a door at the end. “My prize possession,” he said. “My library.”
“Prize possession. That’s rich. You don’t even like reading,” Mrs. Goldman said.
“I like books. I like the look and smell of old books,” he said. “Do you know who owned this library before me? Another English lord. Probably one of your relations.” (He looked at me, then Darcy.) “He was having financial troubles, so I bought the whole thing, lock, stock and barrel. Had the shelves shipped over here and reassembled just as it was. I even found windows from an old country house in England.”
I noticed then that the windows had been set into alcoves, to give the impression of thick castle walls, I supposed. Each of the alcoves was hung with heavy red drapes. The windows were clearly very old, maybe even Tudor—small panes of imperfect glass between heavy oak frames.
“There. That’s the El Greco,” Cy said, drawing our attention away from the windows and the stunning view beyond. He went over to a small painting now propped up against one of the shelves. It was a Madonna and child with the painter’s characteristic long faces and elongated hands. It was done in muted reds and blues and the woman looked incredibly sad, but it was lovely in its own way.
“Looks rather dreary to me,” Mrs. Goldman said. “Couldn’t you have found something more cheerful?”
“You wait until you find out what it’s worth, honey. Then you’ll suddenly decide it’s lovely and you have to have it in your living room in New York to show to the Hadassah ladies.”
“I don’t think they’d take kindly to a Madonna and child,” she said. “Even if they are by El Greco.”
Cy put down the painting then moved over to the polished library table. “I thought I might put the candlesticks in here on the table so I can enjoy them when I’m working,” Mr. Goldman said. A plain wooden case now lay on it. He opened this and took out a candlestick. There was a gasp from the group. It was amazing—a little too ornate for my taste but brilliant nonetheless. It was about eighteen inches high, and around its base was a complete country scene all in gold, with young girls dancing among trees. Curled garlands of golden flowers rose up its sides. And dotted everywhere were precious stones—ruby and emerald centers for the flowers, diamonds, sapphires, topaz, and lapis adorned the girls and the trees, all sparkling in the light of the chandelier that hung from the ceiling.
“Pretty, huh?” He held it up to us.
“I hope you’ve got it properly insured,” Helen Goldman said. “That thing’s worth a fortune.”
“There’s a pair of them, Helen. But don’t worry. I’ll get them insured. Besides, who can break into this place?” Cy said. “I’ll have the fence electrified if you’re worried.” He put the candlestick back in its case and closed the lid. “Now let’s go and see where we’re going to hang the El Greco. If I put it next to the Goya it will be overshadowed. It needs just the right lighting.”
We followed him out of the library. “You’re like a little boy.” Helen drew level with him now. “Can’t get enough new toys, can you? Well, don’t forget that it’s my money too that you’re wasting like this.”
“There’s plenty more where that came from,” he said, “and if you don’t like the way I live you can always divorce me, you know.”
“You don’t want a divorce,” she said. “You wouldn’t want to pay all that alimony and you know I’d drag all the sordid details of you and your mistresses through the courts. Believe me.”
“Oh, I do believe you. You always did have a vindictive streak,” he said.
“I’m sure the newspapers would love to read about you and dear Stella—or are you looking to move on to someone a little younger, perhaps? You’re not wearing well around the edges, Stella honey. I’d say this is your last hurrah as a movie star.”
“You’re a bitch, Helen, did anyone tell you that?” Stella said.
“Frequently. And I enjoy it. It’s one of my few pleasures since my husband abandoned me.”
“I abandoned you?” Cy demanded. “I like that. Who wanted her own bedroom from day one? And kept the door locked?”
“You always were too demanding. You should have given me more time. Like a great ape, you were.”
The rest of us were trapped in the corridor with them, absolutely squirming with embarrassment. In England such a scene would never have happened. Fighting in public was just not done among our sort of people. It was Charlie Chaplin who took control. “I think we’ll go change for dinner and leave you to it, Cy,” he said. “I enjoy a prizefight as much as anyone, but I hate seeing good antiques get smashed. Come on, gang.”
We followed him back down the hallway and out into the mist that had risen from the Pacific Ocean to take over the landscape. Trees were now blurred and indistinct shapes.
“Where on earth are we going?” Belinda asked.
“We have one of the guest cottages,” I said. “Look. Down there in the trees.”
“We have to walk back here in the dark?” Belinda said.
“I agree,” Mummy said, “and with the wild animals too.”
“Wild animals. That’s funny.” Belinda laughed.
“You didn’t see any on your
way up here?” Mummy said. “Those woods are teeming with giraffes and zebras and God knows what.”
Belinda peered into the trees, still not sure if we were pulling her leg. “And there may be lions. We haven’t seen them yet,” I added, still feeling rather cross with her. “What are you doing here, Belinda? You really have a nerve.”
“Darling, I got sacked from Harrods when this obnoxious Frenchwoman told my boss that I wasn’t really French. And your postcard arrived the same day. I said to myself it must be fate, so I used my last paycheck to buy a ticket. And another piece of absolute luck—I met Mrs. Goldman on the train. Helped her with her case, actually. I had no idea who she was until she told me. So it really had to be fate, didn’t it?”
“Yes, but what do you want to do here?”
“I told Mrs. Goldman I was a costume designer. Well, I could be, easily. You have to admit I have a flair.”
“Yes, you do.”
She glanced around, then pulled me closer to her. “But now I’m thinking I might have found my sugar daddy instead. Isn’t Craig Hart divine? Did you see how attentive he was to me? Is he married?”
“Not at the moment, I don’t think. But he’s fickle.”
“He was pursuing Georgie until you arrived,” Mummy said. “I can’t think why.”
“He even kissed me last night,” I said with a grin. “Darcy saw and was not amused.”
“And what’s Darcy doing here then? And isn’t that Algie Broxley-Whatsit? What a little creep he always was—he groped one at hunt balls.”
“They are doing exactly the same thing as you, Belinda dear,” Mummy said. “Using my fame to get themselves a job on a film.”
“How screamingly funny.” Belinda laughed loudly. There was a stirring in the bushes and some kind of antelope bounded out. “Ye gods,” Belinda said. “You weren’t joking about the animals.”
While we dressed for dinner I told Belinda about Queenie.
“Well rid of her, darling. She was a millstone around your neck,” Belinda said. “Now, if Darcy plays his cards right and becomes a film star you’ll be able to marry him and afford a real maid.”
I was surprised at the jolt of horror I felt as she said this. Did I want my future husband to be a film star? I knew it would make him a lot of money, but it would mean a life very different from the one I had visualized. And women throwing themselves at him. Darcy was only human and I’d seen the way Stella was already ogling him.
“Tell me, Georgie,” Belinda went on. “Do you think I might really have a chance with Craig Hart?”
“For one night, maybe. Isn’t that how film stars behave? He was kissing me yesterday.”
“But when he experiences the incredible sex I have to offer, isn’t it possible that he might want an aristocratic English wife?”
“But you don’t even know him. He may be horrible under the façade. He may have tantrums and act like a spoiled little boy.”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. He’d have enough money to keep me happy.”
I sat on my bed and looked up at her. She already looked older than me. “Is that what you really want, Belinda? Just lots of money, no matter how you get it?”
“Money and sex, darling. That’s about it.”
“What about love?”
She looked out of the window. “I don’t think I’m destined for love,” she said. Then she peered harder. “What do you think that Stella Brightwell is doing among the trees? Feeding the animals?”
I went over to join her. It was hard to see through the fog in the fading light, but it really did look like Stella Brightwell, with something dark draped around her shoulders, moving quickly through the trees. I wondered if she’d arranged to meet Juan, perhaps. Or if she was running away in a huff after that tiff in the corridor. In which case Mr. Goldman was not pursuing her.
Chapter 18
AT MR. GOLDMAN’S CASTLE
THE EVENING OF AUGUST 3
I am still rather annoyed with Belinda although in a way I’m glad she’s here. She is so good at crashing other people’s parties. Actually I suppose I’m jealous. I wish I had her nerve.
By the time we had waited for Mummy to change her clothes and adjust her hair and makeup and had walked back to the main house, we were among the last to assemble in a long gallery that looked as if it had been lifted from Versailles. One wall was lined with mirrors. The furniture was brocade and gilt. There was a great marble fireplace in the middle of one wall. In the far corner Charlie Chaplin, Craig and Darcy stood at an impressive cocktail cabinet shaped like a Spanish galleon. Algie was hovering near them, hoping to be included in their conversation. Stella Brightwell was standing alone staring out of the window. She was toying with a strand of hair in a nervous manner. Barbara Kindell was sitting pretending to read a magazine but actually taking in the scene. There was no sign of Juan or Ronnie or the Goldmans.
Belinda made a beeline for the men at the cocktail cabinet. Mummy went over to Stella. I followed and saw what Stella was looking at. Juan was outside alone, walking up and down, puffing on a cigarette, glancing from time to time up at the castle.
“It’s not right.” Stella looked up at Mummy. “Cy discovers him in a small Spanish town, promises him the Earth. Drags him all this way, far from his home, and then tells him he’s not a star after all. Now Juan doesn’t know what to do. I think he’d like to go home but Cy has him under contract. He has us all under contract—me, Craig . . . we’re all his puppets, you know.”
“Could Cy’s change of heart have more to do with your interest in Juan than his accent?” Mummy asked. “I get the feeling he doesn’t like to share his possessions.”
Stella and Mummy exchanged a glance. “I must admit I am tempted,” Stella said. “I mean, I’m eternally grateful to Cy for everything, but you have to admit it. He’s old. And Juan—I mean, my God, what a body. I bet he’s a raging bull in bed.”
They looked back and saw that I’d overheard. I pretended to find a magazine and went to sit on a sofa but I could still overhear perfectly well.
“That was one of the things Cy accused me of in our little dustup just now,” Stella said. “Thank God you left. It wasn’t pretty. I think ‘catfight’ probably describes it. God, that woman is poison. I think she just came here to make trouble—I can’t think why else. She hates the West Coast.” She paused to light a cigarette, then took a long draw on it before she went on. “She won’t live with him. She won’t share his bed but she won’t let him go. Someone should push her off a cliff and have done with it.”
“Or feed her to the lions?” Mummy asked.
She and Stella exchanged a wicked smile.
Then the Goldmans came in together, giving every appearance of being a happy couple. “Ready for dinner, everyone?” Cy boomed in his loud voice. “Eat hearty tonight because tomorrow it’s going to be work, work, work for most of you. I want this movie shot on time. I promised Claire I’d be done with her on schedule and by God I intend to be. Come on. This way.”
He led us through double doors at the end of the Versailles room. A long dark wood table stretched the entire length of the chamber. Along it were tall candlesticks, each flickering with light. Two chandeliers hung from a wood-paneled ceiling. Small paned windows looked out onto the hillside. It was like stepping back into medieval times. There were banners and crossed weapons on the walls. Yet another suit of armor in the corner.
“Take a seat,” Cy commanded. “How about this table, huh? I got it from a monastery last time I was in Europe. And the candlesticks. They had them in the chapel but I think they look better here.” He sat at one end of the table, Mrs. Goldman at the other. Place cards indicated where the rest of us should sit. Stella was in the middle with Craig facing her. I was on one side of him, Belinda on the other. Charlie Chaplin and Mummy were on either side of Mr. Goldman. Ronnie on the other side of me. He had b
een sent to fetch Juan, who sat, silent and glowering, next to Mrs. Goldman.
“Okay, Maria, you can serve now,” Mr. Goldman called and a pleasant-looking Mexican woman came in carrying a tray of oysters to the table. She was just about to offer them to Mr. Goldman when Mrs. Goldman let out a yell. “What were you thinking, Cyrus? There’s thirteen at dinner. Don’t you know how unlucky that is?”
“I don’t believe in luck, personally. Besides, people have arrived who weren’t in my final count. People you brought, Helen. You brought the bad luck, not me.”
Mrs. Goldman glared and fell silent. The dinner was simple by our English standards but very tasty. After the oysters there was a spicy soup with vegetables and crunchy bits, then quail, then big slabs of prime rib, served very rare. The meal finished with ice cream with fruit. I would have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t sensed the clear atmosphere of tension around me. Mr. and Mrs. Goldman exchanged barbs the full length of the table. Charlie was flirting across the table with my mother, who was not exactly repelling his advances. Belinda monopolized Craig. I turned to Ronnie. “Is it always like this here?” I asked.
Ronnie smiled. “You should know by now, Mr. Goldman feeds off drama. There has to be high stress around him. And Mrs. Goldman—she’s hardly ever here, especially not when he’s got guests like this. And between ourselves she’s not exactly the gracious hostess.”
He looked past me to where Belinda was now hanging on Craig’s every word.
“I see I’ve been discarded,” I whispered to Ronnie.
“Your friend is practically throwing herself at him,” Ronnie agreed. He smirked. “I wonder if she’d be so eager if she knew.”
“Knew what?”
He leaned closer. “I was going to tell you yesterday, to save you from getting the wrong idea and further embarrassment.” He paused then muttered, “Craig Hart is . . . well, you know. He is not exactly interested in the female sex, if you know what I mean.”
“Crikey. One of the leading heartthrobs in the world and he’s a fairy?” I whispered.