by ILIL ARBEL
At that moment, she noticed Mrs. Rivers, who had just come down from her room. Maisie wanted to go to her, but was prevented from it by seeing her approach Julian. She could not hear what they said, but they seemed to meet amicably enough, so Maisie decided that the only thing to do was to find someone she knew and start talking to him or her so to not to be seen standing by herself. With this excellent plan in mind, she walked to the bar at the far end of the room, and was pleased to see Glamora standing there, waiting for her drink to be mixed, and as usual, surrounded by a group of admirers.
“Maisie! Come and have a drink with me!” said Glamora. Maisie smiled and accepted a sherry from one of the waiters. “Such a nice party,” she said politely and with a sad lack of sincerity, as she was not enjoying herself at all. “Yes,” said Glamora, “it seems to be a success. What a crowd, though. I am losing my taste for such huge gatherings, I am afraid... Maisie, I need to talk to you. Let’s move to the window, where we can have some peace.” She waved at the small crowd around her and took Maisie to a window seat. “I wonder if the new girl has come yet. Did you see her anywhere?” she said to Maisie
“New girl?” said Maisie, wondering if Glamora meant the fake fiancée.
“Yes, did Jake tell you?” said Glamora. “He is searching for a new star to replace me after the sequel is released and I move on to different roles, and there is a girl, introduced by Mrs. Lewis, who was supposed to come to the party. It’s all hush-hush, of course, but she may become a great star soon, if Jake likes her. It will take place only after I change my roles, of course, so sales of the sequel and of Dance We Shall would not be hurt.”
“I think I did see her,” said poor Maisie. “Is her name Miss Moonshadow?”
Glamora laughed. “More like Miss Sorenson,” she said. “Miss Madge Sorenson. She is a good little girl from Peoria, but according to Mrs. Lewis, very beautiful, and more important, possesses great star potential.”
“She is magnificent,” said Maisie with her usual candour and her talent of accepting reality. “Not as magnificent as you, Mrs. Goldwasser. No one will ever be like you, not in a thousand years, and that is the plain truth and not a silly compliment. But she is very beautiful, and Mrs. Lewis chose her wisely, because since her type of beauty is so different from yours, it won’t seem as if she is trying to imitate you, or that she was hand-picked. She is the willowy brunette type, all silver and stardust and exotic eyes turned up at the corners.”
“Good, that is perfect,” said Glamora. “Come, let’s go meet her. Just remember to call her by her new name, forget she was once Madge, that is very important. I should know...” Maisie could not refuse, and anyway, it had to be done some time, so the sooner it was over the better. They went to the next room and there stood Miss Moonshadow, surrounded by a group of men who were so obviously entranced by her, it was a shame to disturb them, thought Maisie. But Glamora did not have such scruples as she approached the new star.
“Glam,” said Mr. Goldwasser, who was the only one who did not seem to be moonstruck by the newcomer. “Here you are. Allow me to introduce Miss Estella Moonshadow to you.” Glamora held out her hand and Miss Moonshadow took it reverently. Velvet violet eyes met black diamond ones, and the two ladies smiled at each other. No, Madge will never be a Glamora, thought Maisie, gazing at them. But times change, the world must go on, past must merge into future. Estella Moonshadow would do for a star.
“I have always admired you so much, Miss Tudor,” Miss Moonshadow said simply. “I am so happy to meet you.”
“I am very pleased to meet you too, Miss Moonshadow. I would like you to meet Miss Robinson, our best and most admired script writer.” Miss Moonshadow smiled and shook hands with Maisie. Her eyes were so black that you could hardly see the transition between the iris and the pupil, and they had an unpleasant, disturbing effect on Maisie, as if she was looking into an abyss. But she behaved politely and expressed her pleasure at meeting Miss Moonshadow. Mr. Alcott stood nearby. He was very quiet and did not seem to notice Maisie’s presence.
“And what do you do, Miss Moonshadow?” Maisie asked pleasantly. “You certainly look like a movie star to me.”
The girl smiled. “Thank you, Miss Robinson, you are so kind. No, I am not a movie star, far from it, since I am a mere beginner, but I do want to act in films. That is why Mrs. Lewis, who is so very encouraging, sent me here to meet Mr. Goldwasser and Miss Tudor, and here I am, meeting so many wonderful and interesting people. I do hope to become an actress.”
“Have you acted before?” asked Maisie.
“Only in amateur theatricals, at home in Illinois,” said Miss Moonshadow, “but I do love acting so much… I would so much like to find a role in a film, to see if I am any good. My mother always says, if you don’t try it, you’ll never know.”
“I am sure you will find a role,” said Mr. Alcott. Maisie suddenly thought that he looked as sheepish as he did during the days of his calf-love for Glamora. But this time everything was different. Mr. Alcott had become famous, extraordinarily handsome, and had influential friends and excellent prospects for a long, financially rewarding career. His attentions would be very, very welcome by any unattached young woman, particularly one who aspired to roles in films. Yes, this time he would not feel rebuffed.
This is it, Maisie said to herself. I have to stop worrying about Nes, he is on his own, and he is doing very well. He no longer needs me, and frankly, I can’t imagine why I even think about it – surely I have no need to have Nes hang around me. We can remain good friends, of course, but take separate roads. I can’t imagine why I would even mind who is his fake fiancée, or his real one, at that. If this girl becomes Mr. Goldwasser’s new star, naturally it would be fitting to present her as the fiancée of the rising male star, it would work well for the box office and Mr. Goldwasser would certainly encourage it. What do I care, though? I have no reason to… for all I know, Mr. Goldwasser will engage me to write scripts for them as a couple, for quite a few romantic films. That will be a very good thing for my own career, so it’s all for the best… And perhaps Maisie believed what she was saying to herself. We hope so, because we certainly do not believe it at all, not a word of it.
In the meantime, Denis Stonor, who was not terribly interested in the newcomer, went in search of Mrs. Rivers. He wanted to make sure that her meeting with Julian was going well, and perhaps, if needed, act as a buffer and diffuse any ill feelings that might arise. He found them quickly enough, standing in a corner, and approached them with a smile.
“Ah, Denis,” said Mrs. Rivers with what seemed to Denis to be some relief at having him near her. “Allow me to introduce my son, Julian.”
Julian shook Denis’ proffered hand. “I have heard your music,” he said grudgingly.
“And I have seen your paintings,” said Denis, laughing. “So we are even.”
“Strange to meet you here,” said Julian. “Of all places.”
“Well, most of my work is done in America, Mr. Rivers, since I was here from before the war. I don’t do much work in England, so it’s not really strange. I only come to England occasionally, these days.”
“This is my first exhibition here,” said Julian. “About time, I say. Can you imagine that I was never invited before? A slight, I should say.”
“No, not at all,” said Denis. “Recognition of artists from Europe takes time in America. But I am sure the exhibition will be a great success.”
“They don’t have too many great artists in America,” said Julian loudly, so loudly that a few heads turned in their direction. “I don’t see a single painting of mine in this house, by the way, or any of my group’s. Don’t these people have any taste in art?”
“This might change after the exhibition,” said Denis, maintaining his composure for Mrs. Rivers’ sake.
“They would do well to buy from us. Good investment, and you know how they care about money here. Americans adore money, that is all they think about. No culture at all, I think.”<
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Denis did not look at Mrs. Rivers, but he could sense her embarrassment even without seeing her face. Changing the subject would be the only way, but how?
“I understand that all five of your group are here?” he finally said.
“Yes, come to think of it, I must go and join them, we have another engagement. Goodbye, mother. I’ll see you soon.” He turned around and left abruptly, not bothering to look for Mr. Goldwasser or Miss Tudor to thank them. Mrs. Rivers looked after him with some despair.
“Not too bad, Hermione,” said Denis, desperately wanting to comfort her. “Nothing terrible happened.”
Mrs. Rivers sighed. “You are right. Nothing terrible, not yet. Not very nice, but it could be worse. If he stays for a long period, it will be.”
“Come along, let’s have a drink and forget about it. Other than the comment about Americans, which only a few people heard and they don’t even know who he is, nothing at all. Was he rude to you?”
“No, no more than usual. But he is staying for a while. It will come, and at the worst time, as always.”
***
No one had ever seen Lady Norton exhibit such discomfiture before. She was pacing the room, back and forth, much like a prisoner in his cell. Once in a while, she even wrung her hands pathetically; Glamora would have appreciated the gesture, perhaps consider adapting it to her interpretation of Lady Macbeth. The professor had just returned from London, and at that moment, was refreshing his appearance in preparation for tea, unaware of the dreadful fate of the discarded seeds. Lady Norton had not seen him yet. How was she going to tell him that the precious seeds he so carefully obtained for her in the arid wilderness of Arizona were gone forever? She imagined him, wearing a pith helmet and a hunter’s vest with many pockets, walking from cactus to thorny cactus under the scorching desert sun, conquering the rough, stony terrain and braving the dangerous coyotes, that is, if coyotes existed in Arizona and if they were dangerous, in his attempts to secure her, Lady Norton, the rare and valuable seeds, which now lay rotting under the dead begonias. She had forbidden the gardener to clear away the flower bed. Anyone else would naturally be afraid to order a gardener to do anything, since gardeners, as we all know, are most imperious and obey no one, but Lady Norton knew no fear. Her gardener actually feared her, and stayed in her employment only because he could boast about her abusive ways to his friends, who relished the stories over their evening beer. Why she had forbidden him to remove the dead begonias was not entirely clear to Lady Norton, since the seeds were already drowned in all the moisture, but she had a vague hope that the professor could do something, create some kind of miracle, pull a rabbit out of a hat. She might have felt better if she had known that he had obtained the seeds from the Seed Department, where large quantities of useless but well-organized seeds were kept for no reason at all, and had never faced the dangers of the wild, but they had never discussed his methods for obtaining plants and seeds.
After a quarter of an hour or thereabout, the professor came in, cheerful and eager for his good tea. Seeing his desperate, pale hostess, he immediately noticed that something was wrong.
“My dear Lady Norton, what is the matter? You seem disturbed, much disturbed!”
Lady Norton wished she were wandering the desert herself at that moment, with or without a pith helmet. She would have much rather face a ferocious coyote, baring his teeth at her and growling, then confess her crime of losing the seeds. But she was a brave woman. The truth had to be told, and she pulled herself together and told it.
The professor listened to the tale of horror without flinching. To Lady Norton’s surprise, he even ate his toast and cake and drank his tea as she was telling it. “Do not let it distress you, dear Lady Norton,” he finally said. “In my position, I have encountered other enemies… this is not the first time.”
“Enemies? My maid Carla is your enemy, professor? But why?” asked Lady Norton, bewildered.
“Your maid did not act on her own, Lady Norton. I suspect she was acting under the directions of my true Nemesis, Professor Agatha Hilliard-Sabre, from Kensington. I had noticed a gleam of joy in Professor’s Hilliard-Sabre’s eyes, which surprised me, since my lectures were such a glorious success. I expected her to be green with envy, but instead, she looked triumphant. So I believe that while I was taking her audience away from her, she knew your maid was doing the nefarious deed, and it gave her great pleasure.”
“But how would Professor Hilliard-Sabre know Carla?”
“These international criminals have their ways; they always find the person they need. She must have contacted Carla, and bribed her with large sums of money. Would you object to my interviewing your maid, Lady Norton? Perhaps I will have a chance of learning something from her, unless she is very cunning indeed. I am anxious to know if Professor Hilliard-Sabre was the mastermind behind this shady affair.”
Lady Norton did not think of Carla as particularly cunning, but the Professor’s word was Law, and she rang the bell. The butler appeared, expecting to be asked to take away the tea things, but instead was instructed to send Carla to Lady Norton immediately. In a few minutes, Carla appeared and curtsied to the professor. Lady Norton looked at Carla’s rather vacant eyes and dull expression. Could she be such a consummate actress as to hide her criminal nature under such a stupid appearance?
“Carla,” said the professor, “I wish to speak to you about the seeds.”
“Wot seeds, sir?” said Carla, who had forgotten the whole incident.
“The seeds you threw out of the window when you cleaned your mistress’ silver.”
“Oh, them seeds. I never saw seeds, sir. I saw brown powder. I told my lady it was brown powder and it spilled all over the white lace, something dreadful, sir.”
The professor rose from his seat. He was much shorter than Carla, so he could not tower over her, but his angry expression was enough to frighten anyone. “Who told you to throw out the powder?” he roared. “Why didn’t you ask your lady’s permission to do so?”
Carla took a step backwards. “But my lady is always a-telling me to clean, clean, clean, sir! If my lady ever saw filthy brown powder on the white lace…”
“Yes, yes, but did someone pay you to remove the powder, Carla? Did anyone speak to you about it? I am warning you – the truth must be told. Who paid you to clean the brown powder?”
“Pay me to clean? Only the housekeeper pays me wages, sir. Regular like, she does, sir, but not for cleaning any powder. No one said anything about powder to me, or seeds, too, ever, sir.”
“Did you know these seeds were very valuable? Rare?” said the professor in desperation.
“Rare seeds? Whatever do you mean, sir? Seeds is seeds, there are ever so many seeds in packets in the gardener’s shack, them with the nice pictures on them, and them from the garden in brown paper, too. Seeds, sir, they come from plants, you see, so they come up every year regular-like, they are not rare, sir. I never heard of such a thing…”
The professor gave up. Hearing Carla teach him, the great horticulturist, about the origin of seeds was too much for his sensitive nature, and he felt somewhat offended. Waving his hand, he dismissed the maid. She left the room, just as offended as the professor, and shaking her head about the stupidity of the upper classes. Rare seeds indeed! Next, they will be talking about rare water and rare bread! Carla had a mind to give notice, but after talking it over with Cook, who said that the gentry would be a bit crazy wherever she went, she wisely decided to stay; after all, the professor was not going to stay forever.
When she was gone, the professor said, “Well, I did not learn anything from her, but it does not prove that Professor Hilliard-Sabre was not the mastermind. I am sure she is, somehow. May I see the area where the seeds were thrown into?”
Lady Norton led him to the window, and showed him the watery grave of the precious seeds.
“I did not let my gardener clean it, in case you wanted to see it, Professor,” she said.
“
How long ago were the seeds thrown out?” the professor asked.
“About three weeks ago.”
“Ah, well, you may allow the gardener to clear the beds for winter. We will find nothing there. But do not despair, dear Lady Norton. Let us go and look at the pots where we have planted the other half.”
“Why is Professor Hilliard-Sabre your enemy?” asked Lady Norton as they were walking to the cactus room.
“Our feud started many years ago,” said the professor. “It began with her idea of producing small booklets, with colourful botanical illustrations added to the text, and selling them to the masses. I objected vehemently to such vulgar methods. She won and the books were produced and sold in England, and then in America as well.”
“And what happened then?”
“As I continued to object, her argument was that the booklets made plenty of money for Kensington Gardens. Money! What about scholarship? Of course, Kensington agreed with her, while my department in Arizona agreed with me. It went on and on, with other botanists and horticulturists joining the feud. Botanists, as you know, can have strong views, and the arguments had been raging for decades, even though the booklets are now long out of print. She hates me, she truly hates me. You should read the article she wrote, ten years ago, to the New York Times, denouncing me as an old-fashioned creature who does not understand modern times, just because I objected to a new solar panel in an historic greenhouse in Iceland.”
“Obviously a very disagreeable person,” said Lady Norton loyally, though deep in her heart she thought that illustrated versions of her own books could look very well. “Did you respond to the article?”