by Denise Dietz
“Very good, Mary. I don’t know about Claude, but my company doesn’t want actresses. We want people to think what they’re doing. If you think what you’re doing, the expression on your face will be right.”
“I’ll recite for you,” Ruthie said eagerly.
“Maybe later, my dear. For now, I’d like to hear Miss Smith.”
Flo glanced at each member of her small group. Ruthie sulked. Claude DuBois looked uncomfortable. Was he already regretting his offer? Mr. Griffith, Mary Pickford and Mr. Blitzer smiled expectantly. Were they secretly laughing at her? Did they consider her a Colorado souvenir, like her ring?
“What should I recite?” Flo straightened her shoulders and raised her chin.
“Anything at all,” said Griffith.
She could recite Griffith’s poem, The Wild Duck. It was a beautiful ode, full of emotion, and she had memorized every stanza. But the director might think she was trying to bowl him over. Several other poems and book passages spun around in her mind. None seemed right. Then she recalled the film poster she had recited for Jack two years ago. She had repeated it often, teasing Jack mercilessly.
Opening her eyes wide, she paraphrased, “The battle of the sexes for men and women is the war of opinion over the question of the single standard of moral responsibility for men and women, the degradation of any theory justifying the husband in conduct contrary to the marriage vow.” She looked directly into Ruthie’s brown eyes. “It wouldn’t be a single standard if the wife could indulge in conduct contrary to the marriage vow. Do you agree, Miss Adams?”
“I’m not sure what you just said, but I ain’t married. I was engaged but I left my first fiancé when I became an actress and my second when I found Claudie again. Didn’t I, Claudie?”
“Yes. Now go find us a waiter with a bottle of champagne and six glasses.”
“That was very good,” said Griffith. “I’m happy to see my instincts are still astute. Are you married, Miss Smith?”
“No, sir.”
“Employed?”
“I’m a . . . governess.”
“Charming. But a waste of talent and beauty. Please tell me your first name again.”
“Flo.”
“Florence?”
“No, sir. Fools Gold.”
“Most unusual. Stop chuckling, Claude. That’s quite rude of you.” Griffith clasped Flo’s hand in his. “Unfortunately, big-city audiences might laugh, like DuBois here, because they wouldn’t believe your pretty name real.”
“Is it any more unreal than your creations?” Mary smiled. “Blanche Sweet, Bessie Love—”
“It shouldn’t be hard to change, Miss Smith. I’m inspired by the seed pearls on your gown, and all we need do is add three letters to Flo. W-e-r. F-l-o-w-e-r. If you agree to star in Claude’s serial, he can call it The Foibles of Flower.”
DuBois pulled at his mustache. “Would you play my heroine, Miss Smith?”
Flo’s mind raced. Next month Marylander would attend school, and, as a charitable gesture, Flo could stay on as her companion. “When would you begin filming?” she asked.
“That depends on how quickly we draw up the contacts, hire a crew, purchase and transport our equipment. Edward Lytton wants us to film in Colorado Springs, as Romaine Fielding once did. If you have family here, you wouldn’t be separated from them.”
Perfect. She’d be able to stay close to Jack, Sally and Marylander. Dumas, too.
Best of all, Ned Lytton would be learning the motion picture industry. She could meet her father, only he wouldn’t know she was his daughter. As Flower Smith, she could furtively study her father, perhaps initiate a revenge scheme.
What about kissing? “One more question, Mr. DuBois. Does Mr. Lytton require love scenes?”
“I have no idea. Would it make a difference?”
“Yes, sir. I wouldn’t care to show that kind of . . . emotion . . . on the screen. I’m not saying there shouldn’t be men in your movies, but I truly believe the audience would enjoy watching the heroine save the hero.”
“Bravo!” Mary exclaimed.
“An interesting concept,” Griffith said with a smile.
“Interesting,” Flo agreed. “But it defies convention. A heroine saving a hero has never been shown on the screen, at least not to my knowledge. So I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse your generous offer, Mr. DuBois.”
“Wait! I’m not certain how Mr. Lytton feels about love scenes, but I’ll soon find out.”
“Is he here? Where is he?” Once again, Flo felt the color drain from her face. “Is he alone?”
* * * * *
Edward Lytton sat alone at the banquette table. Empty champagne goblets and hors d’oeuvre crusts embellished the tabletop, but his previous companions were traversing the room like a herd of omnivorous sheep. That left Edward free to blatantly stare at the beautiful girl who had posed for his paintings.
He pictured his deceased wife, Dolly, a tiny figure with finespun, flaxen hair. A dandelion puff compared to this incredible, full-blown rose.
Why had Jaygee concealed his model’s identity? To protect her reputation or to keep her for himself? Edward understood both motives. Hadn’t he hung his three paintings inside a private room, hidden from his cronies and Ned?
Edward longed for his lost youth. He had been told that his appearance belied his actual age of sixty-seven by ten years. His silver lion’s mane of hair was still thick. A full mustache hid the grooves from his nose to his mouth. Sensible exercise fine-tuned his body.
Inside his body, his heart betrayed him. Every year it deteriorated faster, the rhythmic contractions growing more erratic as his arteries weakened. His doctor had given him a list of life-preserving rules. He could no longer smoke cigars. He couldn’t overindulge with food or spirits. Moderate workouts were fine, but he dared not copulate.
“I’ll be frank with you,” his heart specialist had said. “Few realize the exertion sustained during sexual intercourse. It’s more strenuous than riding, swimming or tennis. In your case, engaging in sexual activities would be suicide.”
So be it. Edward could never bed that exquisite creature who had captured every glittering ray from the ballroom’s crystal chandelier.
He began to rise from his chair. No. He didn’t want to meet the young woman yet. He needed more information. There were only two times in his life when he had acted impulsively—his marriage proposal and welcoming his son back into the fold upon Ned’s return from Cripple Creek.
Jaygee could provide a dossier, but Jaygee conversed with Speck Penrose. Interrupting them would be rude. Edward raised his hand and summoned Claude DuBois, then swallowed a grin as he watched a pair of polished boots scurry across the marbled floor. His decision to finance DuBois had been partially based on the director’s subservience.
Claude nervously scraped his fingernails against his jodhpurs like a dog scratching fleas. “Are you enjoying the party, sir?”
“I’ve been admiring the view.” Edward directed his gaze toward the group DuBois had just left.
“Would you like to meet my friends, Mr. Lytton? I’ve been discussing our venture with D.W. Griffith, Mary Pick—”
“Who is that young woman?”
“The girl in the yellow dress? Her name is Ruthie Adams.”
“No. The purple gown.”
“That’s Flower Smith. I’ve decided to sign her as Dollyscope’s first star, and with your permission, I’ll call our western serial The Foibles of Flower.”
“Is she married? Where does she come from?”
“She’s not married. She said the nugget ring she wears comes from Cripple Creek. Perhaps she does, too.”
“You offered her the starring role in our motion picture and you know nothing about her?”
“D.W. Griffith wanted her, so I decided you’d beat him to the punch.”
“Very good, DuBois. If Griffith wants her, we want her. Don’t just stand there. Sit down.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Lytto
n.” With an audible sigh, Claude sank onto a chair.
“Did she agree?”
“Agree?”
“Did Miss Smith say yes when you offered her the role?”
“Not exactly. First she wanted to know if there would be love scenes.”
“She wanted love scenes?”
“No.” Claude squirmed in his chair. “She said she didn’t care to act out that emotion before a camera. She said the heroine should save the hero. Griffith said it was an interesting concept.”
Interesting, indeed, thought Edward. Did Flower Smith indulge in “that emotion” off screen? Or was she too pure to play the siren? Probably the latter. Despite the subject matter, Jaygee’s paintings had suggested a distinct purity.
Misunderstanding Edward’s silence, Claude said, “We don’t have to engage her, sir. Most women would give anything to appear in your serial. For example, Ruthie Adams, the yellow dress—”
“Miss Smith has a point. We don’t want our motion pictures to be the same as all the others, do we?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you mention a salary?”
“No, but we wouldn’t have to pay her a great deal. She seems very talented and says she can ride a horse, but—”
“Dollyscope will not stint on salaries or production costs. I’ll instruct Ned, but I want you to handle all the details. If we need to increase our budget, my accounting firm must be notified.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Enough of this lollygagging, DuBois. Your job is to circulate and spread the word about Dollyscope. I believe I see William S. Hart talking with our hostess, Julia Penrose. If we can steal Flower Smith from under D.W. Griffith’s nose, perhaps we can lure Hart away from Thomas Ince.”
Claude swallowed. “You know a lot about the movie business, Mr. Lytton.”
“I make it my business to learn everything I can before investing. By the way, the next time you’re invited to an important social gathering, wear proper evening attire.”
“Yes, sir.”
After watching the boots and jodhpurs scurry away, Edward stood. Then he strolled toward Jaygee. Flower Smith now stood by the artist’s side.
“And he offered me the starring role,” she said. “I couldn’t accept, of course.”
“Of course.” Jack sighed audibly. “Hello, Edward.”
“Good evening, Jaygee. Would you be kind enough to introduce me to your lovely companion?”
“Edward Lytton, this is Miss Smith. Honey, this is Edward Lytton, a patron of the arts.”
Edward noted the omission of her first name. Shaking her hand, he felt her arm tremble. Was she embarrassed by the paintings? He should have arranged a more discreet introduction. Too late now. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Smith. Flower Smith, I believe.”
“Flower is a nom de theatre, bestowed upon me by Mr. D.W. Griffith. My given name is Fools Gold. In French it would be Folle d’or and in Spanish . . . Tonto de Oro, I suppose. At least that would be a literal translation.”
“You speak French and Spanish?”
“A little of both, Mr. Lytton. I have been educated as befits a Denver heiress.” Flo sneaked a peek at Jack, but he just stood there, his fingers cradling his chin.
“Denver heiress,” Edward echoed. “I reside in Denver. Perhaps I’ve met your father.”
“Perhaps.”
“Who is your father?”
“His name is Edouard.”
“French for Edward. And his last name?”
“Smith, of course. His mother, the daughter of a Grand-duc, was French. His father was an American from Colorado. My grandparents met in France. It was very romantic. They had many daughters, but Edouard was their only son.”
“Does your father still live in Denver?”
For the briefest moment, Flo hesitated. “No, Mr. Lytton. Papa returned to France. He inherited the estates from his mother’s father, the Grand-duc. My mother is deceased, so I decided to remain in Colorado under the supervision of my aunt, Sally Scott, and my Uncle Jack.”
“And who, may I inquire, is your Uncle Jack?”
“You know him by his alias, Jaygee. Uncle Jack’s deceased wife, Leah, was one of my grandparent’s many daughters. Have I completely baffled you?”
“Yes,” said Jack.
“I am intrigued rather than baffled,” Edward said at the same time.
Now it all makes sense, he thought. That’s why Jaygee kept her identity a secret. He wouldn’t want the world to know that his kin, the granddaughter of a French aristocrat no less, modeled nude. She sure had grit to pose that way.
Jaygee’s paintings didn’t do her justice. They didn’t quite capture the mischief in those dark-blue eyes. The girl was an aristocrat all right. It showed in every word, every royal gesture. But she was also pure Colorado, from her nugget ring to the golden hue of her complexion.
“I begged Papa to leave France,” she said with a sob, “but he insisted on staying . . . fighting . . .”
“Please don’t cry.” Edward reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.
Flo accepted the monogrammed white linen and dabbed at her wet eyes. Mr. Griffith had asked if she could cry on command. She could. Bless “Uncle Jack” for not giving her away. She’d explain later. Perhaps, by then, she’d concoct a plausible explanation. Meanwhile, she must get rid of Jack. If she didn’t, she could never successfully pull off this familial masquerade.
“I feel faint,” she said.
Both men stepped forward.
“Jaygee, help me escort your niece from this stuffy room.”
“Please, Mr. Lytton, Spencer Penrose is such an important patron. Uncle Jack must stay here. Perhaps some fresh air. I’m so ashamed.”
“You need not feel ashamed. We were discussing a painful subject. Lean on me, Miss Smith. To others it will appear as though we are taking a stroll. Or would you prefer to sit?”
“Yes, honey, sit down.”
Flo had a moment of sincere contrition at Jack’s concerned expression. Didn’t he realize she was playing a role? Sure he did. He knew she had no father fighting in France. Yet she had convinced him that she was upset. The art of acting wasn’t difficult at all.
She stared into Jack’s eyes. “I’m supposed to join Miss Pickford at the buffet table. Would you tell her I’ll be delayed?”
At his nod, Flo squeezed out a strained smile. She watched him walk away then switched her focus to Edward, who immediately said, “May I fetch you a glass of wine, Miss Smith?”
“No, Mr. Lytton, thank you just the same. Please remove your arm from my waist. People will gossip if you hold me in such a personal manner.”
“Poppycock! I’m old enough to be your grandfather.”
“Are you married, sir? Do you have children?”
“My wife is deceased. I have a son—”
“Is he here?” She felt her heart rise and beat against the base of her throat.
“No. Ned’s in Denver.”
“Your son was named for you. How proud you must be.”
“Miss Smith, you appear flushed. Are you all right?”
“I’m still a bit woozy. Perhaps that breath of fresh air?”
“Let me escort you outside.”
“Only if you call me Flo.”
“I prefer Flower. When I first saw you, I compared you to a lovely rose.”
“How sweet, Mr. Lytton.”
“Please call me Edward.”
“I have a confession to make, Edward.” She looked down, hiding her eyes. “I feel . . . I honestly feel as if I’ve known you my whole life.”
Twenty-Six
“I had to make up something on the spot,” said Flo, “and I had to invent a story Mr. Lytton would find believable.”
She sat on a Turkish rug in the middle of Jack’s front parlor. Kittens roamed through the folds of her red skirt—Kathlyn’s first litter. Flo’s other pets had been set free or given away, but Kathlyn, or Kat, lived with Jack.
“I don
’t understand why you bothered,” he grumbled, lighting his new pipe and drawing aromatic smoke through its stem.
Flo heaved an exasperated sigh. “Can you imagine the magazine articles? ‘Flower Smith, bastard daughter of a Cripple Creek parlor girl, plays the virtuous heroine in Dollyscope’s first motion picture.’ ”
“Before Lytton appeared, you were shrugging off DuBois’s offer. One year ago you became frantic at the thought of starring in a movie.”
“One year ago I became upset at the idea of performing love scenes. But Edward has accepted my concept of the heroine saving the hero. If Flower wants to initiate a tender moment—”
“Edward? What happened to Mr. Lytton?”
Flo placed the kittens close to Kat’s belly. “Edward treats me with the utmost respect and seems impressed by my aristocratic background.”
Jack towered above her, his pipe making exclamation points in the air. “Do you know anything at all about Edward Lytton? Do you know of his reputation as a womanizer? Are you aware that he always gets his own way? He even acquired my paintings, despite my sworn vow not to sell them.”
“Are you fussed because of the paintings? Edward promised he’d return them to you, if that is my desire.”
“He doesn’t need my paintings when he has the flesh-and-blood model. Why can’t you see that? He’s biding his time, fishing, until he can lure you to his bed.”
Rising, she faced Jack. “Edward can never ‘lure me to his bed.’ His heart is impaired, and making love would kill him. He confessed that fact two nights after the Penrose Ball, while we were dining at the Cheyenne Mountain Country Club.”
“And you believed him?”
“Why would he lie? He even offered to introduce me to his younger associates, as if a lover was what I wanted.”
“What do you want?”
What did she want? A fair question. Perhaps she wanted to exploit Edward’s interest in a vague manner of revenge. Hadn’t he held a financial whip over her father’s head? A whip that had caused Ned to abandon Blueberry?
“I want to be a movie heroine,” she said. “But I must be in control. If I control Edward, he’ll control Claude DuBois.”
“Lytton, like most men, is controlled by a certain portion of his anatomy.”