The Rainbow's Foot

by Denise Dietz

  “The water closet, you idiot.” DuBois scowled. When the two women were out of earshot, he said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Lytton.”

  “Wait in the lobby, Claude. I prefer Miss Adams not grace our table again.”

  Ned jumped to his feet. “I’ll escort Miss Adams to her room, Father.”

  “Sit down, Ned. I have an important announcement. On second thought, I shall state my intentions after Mrs. Scott returns, perhaps over dessert and brandy.”

  “Then I’ll be here. I shouldn’t be gone more than ten minutes.” Ned walked swiftly through the dining room, toward the lobby.

  “Maybe I should help,” Johanna said. “I’ve watched Nanny nurse the children. Except for the whooping cough, Kate was never ill. Dorothy had migraines. Steven was a sickly child. Earaches.”

  “I believe Ned has the situation well in hand, my dear.” Edward sounded composed, but when he raised his fluted goblet, Flo saw his fingers press hard against the glass.

  “On second thought,” Johanna said, “Miss Adams could be contagious and I wouldn’t want to put myself at risk.”

  Contagious? Flo’s eyes implored the ceiling. Lord have mercy!

  Sally returned, and the rest of the meal continued, with inconsequential chatter about unusual movie techniques. Lorenzo said he’d make a taffy display for the premiere of the first Flower Smith serial.

  Johanna placed her linen napkin over her empty plate. “Where’s Ned? Why hasn’t he come back yet?”

  “Ned probably met a former business acquaintance and joined him for a drink,” Edward said smoothly.

  Flo suppressed the urge to shake Johanna. Was the woman really so dense? No. She played a role. By ignoring Ned’s indiscretions, they didn’t exist.

  “Perhaps Ned had some difficulty with Miss Adams, Edward.”

  “Finish your mineral water, Johanna. I’m certain there’s no cause for alarm. In fact, here he comes now.”

  Flo turned with the others to watch her father’s approach. Johanna was all smiles. Didn’t she notice the satisfied smirk on his face? Flo shuddered at the thought of Ruthie offering Ned her rouged nipples. How had Cat McDonald become involved with that blowsy actress? Except for Suzy and Swan, every single one of Little Heaven’s Angels had possessed more breeding, more finesse, more downright good sense.

  “Claude, I suspect you want to validate the condition of your protégé,” Edward said.

  “She’s probably asleep.”

  “You’d better make sure.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After the director had scurried away, Ned reached for a charlotte russe. “What’s your important announcement, Father?”

  “I plan to reopen Aguila del Oro.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m very serious.”

  “But it will cost a fortune.”

  “It’s my fortune, Ned, not yours. I plan to sell some coal mining stocks.”

  “Those stocks are supposed to be held in trust for Edward Steven, with me as executor.”

  “They are still my stocks. I’m not dead yet. Are you familiar with Aguila del Oro, Lorenzo?”

  “Yes. Sally’s upset over the grounds lying fallow and the stable going to waste. She’d like to find some more equine ruffians—untrained stallions and mares—but the barns at Turkey Creek are full-up.”

  “Your lovely wife is welcome to use my stables when repairs are completed. I hope she’ll visit often.” Edward swirled the brandy in his snifter. “Six architectural firms submitted plans. Yesterday I awarded the contract to Varian and Sterner. They’re the ones who designed this hotel. So you see, we’re celebrating more than one contract tonight.”

  “Do you plan to live there, Father?”

  “Of course.”

  “Alone?”

  “That is my concern and none of your business.”

  Seething, Ned glared at Flo. “My father will need someone to hostess his social events. Who better than the granddaughter of a duke? Did you think I wouldn’t check you out, Flower Smith? Did you honestly believe I wouldn’t hire detectives when my father remained in Colorado Springs, waxing lyrical over your existence?”

  “Ned, control yourself,” Johanna gasped.

  “For one thing, Sally Scott is not her aunt. Didn’t you catch Sally’s slip of the tongue, Father, when she said her maiden name was Marylander?”

  “Of course. But only a rude, insufferable bore—”

  “Wait! I’m not finished. Are you aware that Flower’s given name is Fools Gold?”

  “Flower told me during our introduction. Is there anything else you’d like to say?”

  “I . . . no.”

  “Good. One more word and I would have severed your ties with Dollyscope and canceled your investment funds. Don’t look so stricken, Johanna. I’d never neglect Kate’s care, and you will always be welcome in my home. Flower, would you come with me, please?”

  “Certainly, Edward.” She accepted his extended arm and rose from her chair.

  “I apologize for this trivial family spat,” Edward said, looking toward the Scotts. “I don’t believe Flower has seen Antlers Park in the moonlight, and I’d like to show her the plants my friend William Palmer transplanted here from Mexico. Would you care to join us?”

  “No, thank you,” Sally replied. “I hear the lobby orchestra playing a selection from Mr. Irving Berlin’s syncopated musical show, Watch Your Step.” She slanted an angry glance toward Ned, her expression suggesting he watch his back as well as his step. “Lorenzo, would you escort me to a seat inside the lobby?”

  “I would escort you to the ends of the earth, Sal my gal. In truth, I have consumed a great deal of champagne and brandy. You’ll have to maneuver our Maxwell back to Turkey Creek.”

  “Why don’t we register at the hotel, darling?”

  “What a grand idea. Thanks for dinner, Edward.”

  “The mineral water has made me rather frisky,” Johanna simpered, watching Lorenzo and Sally. “Will you escort me to our suite, Ned?”

  “Why not? I’m feeling somewhat fatigued myself.”

  Flo’s hand rested in the crook of Edward’s elbow as she walked through the dining room and lobby. When they reached the park, she removed her hand and faced her grandfather. “You said you’d never neglect Kate’s care. What has caused her illness?”

  “Kate’s twenty-one, but an . . . unpleasant incident . . . left her incapacitated and she can’t function beyond the age of a small child.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “She’s made good progress over the last three years, and we hope she’ll recover completely. Pope put it well. ‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast.’ ”

  “Pope is correct, and so was Ned. Sally Scott is not my aunt.”

  “Is Jaygee your uncle?”

  “No. My father disappeared before I was born. He said he was going into the mountains to find gold, but he never came back. When my mother died, Jack sheltered me. Our relationship has always been that of an uncle and niece. I’m sorry I lied.”

  “You made up your false background because you knew I owned the paintings. You figured I’d be less shocked if you were Jaygee’s niece and the granddaughter of French aristocracy. We need not discuss this again.”

  “How kind you are, Edward. I, myself, could never sanction such deceit.”

  “Ned will keep his mouth shut. I’ve given him fair warning.”

  Enough of this charade, she thought. It’s time I told the truth. She took a deep breath. “Edward, please listen. I have a confession—”

  “Hush. I heard your confession the first night we met, and now you must hear mine. I love you.” He knelt. “I want you to be my wife and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Edward, please stand up. I can never be your wife.”

  “I realize you deserve a young, healthy husband—”

  “You’re mistaken. I don’t want any husband at all.”

  “Poppycock! Every woman wants a
husband. However, since you do not care to wed another man, why not accept my proposal? Don’t you love me a little?”

  “I love you very much. But I love you as a—”

  “Friend. Yes, I know. Our friendship can never lead to anything else. I value life too much, especially since I’ve met you. I’d never put my failing heart in jeopardy.”

  “If we cannot consummate the marriage, why do you want to marry me?”

  Rising, he walked forward. “I enjoy the envy of my associates when you stand by my side. And you amuse me with your wit.”

  “There are many women who possess those qualities.”

  “I know none who possess your unique blend of beauty and knowledge. If you marry me, you’ll never want for anything.”

  “I have everything I want.”

  “After you accept my proposal, I shall change my will. You’ll be my sole benefactor. I need you to protect my grandchildren. Ned lacks initiative, skill and luck. Also, he’s involved with the Ku Klux Klan. Last year they established headquarters in Denver, and Ned aspires to be a force in that evil confederation. I cannot, in good conscience, leave my fortune to my son.”

  “Let me ask you a question, Edward. Remember the story I told at the dinner table, the one about Minta LaRue?”

  “I have no objection if you wish to make a movie.”

  “That’s not my question. Suppose your son was Minta’s lover, but he was already married? If you knew your son had abandoned a pregnant woman, what would you do?”

  “Did Ned abandon Minta?”

  “No,” she replied promptly, sincerely.

  “Then I don’t understand.”

  “Please answer honestly.”

  “If my son was already married, I’d make the woman financially comfortable and support the child.”

  “Would you acknowledge the child as a Lytton?”

  “I would educate him,” Edward replied, sidestepping her question. “Now answer my question. Will you marry me?”

  “First, there’s something you should know about me. On my fourteenth birthday, a man tried to rape me. He was unsuccessful, but his attempt left its mark. I cannot tolerate being touched in any manner except friendship.”

  “No love scenes in your movies.”

  She nodded. “If we were to wed, you’d enjoy my loyalty and affection. But one intimate gesture from you and I’d leave straightaway.”

  “I’m sorry you had your horrible experience.”

  “Could you agree to my terms?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d have to retire from the movies.”

  “Why?”

  “Wouldn’t it bother you, having an actress for a wife?”

  He glanced up at the starry sky. “Let’s strike a bargain. Make your movies while I rebuild Aguila del Oro. Then we’ll decide if you should retire.”

  Flo’s thoughts scudded like windswept clouds. All these years I’ve told myself Edward was responsible for Ned’s betrayal of Blueberry, and he wasn’t.

  If I married Edward, I’d love him like a granddaughter. I’d make him happy. I’d inherit his fortune. I’d control Ned. What a perfect revenge.

  She felt tears stain her lashes. No. A thousand times no. I cannot wed my own grandfather.

  As if in a dream, she heard Edward repeat the words he’d said earlier. “I want you to be my wife, Flower, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Colorado Springs: 1917

  Edward Lytton heard his heart. Leaning back in his chair, he concentrated on every detail of the hotel’s sun parlor—a trick his specialist has suggested—until his heart stopped pounding like a muted war drum.

  The sun parlor was a glassed-in room with imported Indian rattan furniture. Sunbeams played follow-the-leader across potted palms, even though rain had been forecast. But sunshine and rain begat rainbows, and a pot of gold was said to be buried at the rainbow’s foot. After years of cloudy aspirations, Edward had finally found his pot of gold, and it wasn’t money or property or power.

  It was happiness.

  His young wife made him happy.

  It was a pleasure just to look at her. He loved spoiling her with gowns and trinkets—a diamond here, a sapphire there. She never protested, accepting each expensive bauble with grateful enthusiasm. She refused to keep her jewels inside a vault and displayed them on every occasion. Only Flower could wear her nugget ring and a five-carat diamond that obscured her knuckle. Only Flower could wear emeralds at her throat, a silver, ruby-eyed lion brooch at her bodice. When she wore all those diverse gemstones, she reminded him of a peacock.

  The best jewel of all was nearing completion. Aguila del Oro. Last week he’d ordered a bell cast by local craftsmen, to hang inside the new stone tower. Flower had called it “Bessie’s Curfew Bell.” Then she’d sung a funny song about a girl named Bessie, whose lover was doomed to die at curfew’s knell. “You’re supposed to weep,” she had chided, which made him laugh even harder.

  For Aguila del Oro’s interior, he’d added an elevator, a telephone system, and ornamental stone for thirteen fireplaces. Jaygee helped him purchase a collection of canvasses that included works by artists named Cezanne, Gauguin and Picasso.

  Billiard rooms and a wine cellar were under construction. Inside the library, workmen had added a movie screen and a high, extended projection room. Looking around, sniffing the fragrance of cedar sawdust, Flower had grinned impishly. “A long time ago I told someone I would buy a motion picture show. His name was Cat McDonald and he told me you don’t buy them, you pay to watch. Cat was right about lots of things”—she patted her ebony braids—“but he was wrong about buying movies.”

  On the estate grounds, a swan-populated stream rippled through scrub oak, spruce trees and willows. There were cottages for the servants. An army of workers laid pipelines to provide water for the water closets, the kitchen, and three lily ponds.

  Lichen-crusted blocks of Pikes Peak stone reinforced Aguila del Oro’s crumbling walls. Weather permitting, the renovations would be completed by Thanksgiving.

  Now Edward strolled through the Antlers until he entered his suite. He sank down onto a comfortable armchair, balancing Motion Picture Magazine, a newspaper, and King Coal, a new novel about Colorado coal mining by author Upton Sinclair.

  Ignoring the printed matter, Edward thought about Claude’s promotional scheme, what Flower had called a coup d’etat.

  Last January Claude had arranged for a story to break in several national newspapers, stating that popular screen star Flower Smith had been killed in a Colorado Springs streetcar accident. With the public’s interest aroused, he then placed advertisements in the same papers:

  “The blackest and at the same time silliest lie yet, circulated by enemies of DOLLYSCOPE PRODUCTIONS, was the story foisted on the people of America last week to the effect that FLOWER SMITH, known as The Brightest Bloom in Motion Pictures, had been killed by a streetcar. It was a cowardly black lie. Dollyscope’s next film, THE FOIBLES OF FLOWER: COUNTESS OF THE CLIFFS, stars FLOWER SMITH and her famous horse ANGEL.”

  The public, which had greeted Dollyscope’s first release with mild curiosity, flocked to the opening of Countess. A few theater owners canceled the longer movies scheduled to follow, playing the three-reel story over and over, collecting a new admission each time. In general, a reel was ten minutes long. Within the space of thirty minutes, Flower and Dumas—renamed Angel—had captured the passionate devotion of their audience. Fan clubs for the new actress sprang up in cities around the country.

  “My fans grow like weeds,” Flower had said, her lovely mouth curved in an elfin grin.

  Lytton didn’t care for Claude DuBois personally, but he had to admit the ferret-faced director earned his inflated salary.

  After the film’s premiere, Edward had received a telegram from D.W. Griffith.

  LYTTON: EXPECT THAT IN FIVE YEARS PICTURES WILL BE MADE AT A COST OF A MILLION DOLLARS. BIRTH OF A NATION COST HALF A MILL
ION. AND I EXPECT AUDIENCES WILL PAY NOT MERELY WHAT THEY ARE PAYING FOR A LEGITIMATE DRAMA TODAY BUT AS MUCH AS THEY PAY FOR GRAND OPERA. FIVE DOLLARS A SEAT. MANY HAPPY RETURNS ON YOUR INVESTMENT.

  Griffith had been quoted as saying: “Good hair, good eyes, good teeth. These are essential for good movie actors.”

  Good hair. Since Flower usually wore a western hat for her role, she had created a new hairstyle. From a middle part, her long strands were plaited with intertwining ribbons. Then the braids were looped behind her ears and secured there with flower-decorated combs. Already women were placing their curling irons inside dressing-table drawers and adapting the new style.

  Good eyes. Luckily, Flower’s eyes were such a dark blue. Light eyes were seldom successful before the movie cameras because they photographed white, wild, or startled.

  Good teeth. Flower’s smile lit up the screen. Her mouth was perfect for kissing, yet no movie hero had achieved that goal. Sally Scott swore that women secretly applauded Flower’s resistance to temptation and her control over her emotions.

  Flower retained the services of haute couture designer Jeanne Lanvin. Mademoiselle Lanvin designed children’s clothing, and Sally had discovered her while shopping for Marylander’s wardrobe. Now, as a sideline, Lanvin originated the outfits worn on the screen by Flower Smith. Many were sewn from soft velvets or silks, and the feminine attire became a counterpoint to what DuBois still insisted was a backwards concept—the heroine rescuing the hero.

  Backwards concept. Interesting concept. Flower’s concept. Whatever one called it, Dollyscope Productions had become a financial success, and Flower Smith was a motion picture star. Right up there with Kathlyn Williams and Pearl White, who prided themselves on never using doubles for their thrilling stunts.

  Edward’s heart began its irritating drumbeat again, so he focused on the decor of his room. French doors led to a private balcony. The furniture was massive mahogany. Since he conducted business inside his suite, management had installed three telephones. From his window could be seen one of the city’s most dramatic mountain views.

  Flower’s suite next door had the same view.

  Despite the hotel’s comforts, he looked forward to moving into Aguila del Oro. After all, he and Flower had lived at the Antlers for eight months.