The Cavendon Women (29 page)

Diedre nodded and picked up the menu, glancing at it briefly. She did not feel hungry, and for this reason she selected the grilled sole.

Paul did the same, and then lifted his glass, savored the champagne. He knew they would be good together. Diedre would make the perfect wife for him, with her elegance, impeccable manners, and bright mind, not to mention her beauty. And she was loving, kind. And she would make a wonderful mother. What glorious news this was.

He had never known women like the Ingham girls. The four Dees, as they were called by the staff at Cavendon. Nor had he ever been in the middle of a family as eccentric and unique as theirs. They were full of
joie de vivre,
and a certain craziness that captivated him. And Diedre, he had discovered, was as sexually motivated as he was, and he was thrilled by her sensuality and enthusiasm in his bed.

“What is your business problem about?” Diedre asked, breaking into his thoughts. “Or don't you wish to discuss it?”

“I can talk about it, sure. A few years ago Hugo and I made an investment in a small manufacturing company, because we believed in it. Frankly, we thought it had a lot of potential. Lately, they've been asking for more money, and we're not feeling easy about that. Nor about the head of the company either. Hugo and I dislike the way he's now running it. I need more information before we put in another nickel, and Hugo agrees with me. In fact, we've been wondering if we could sell them our shares, get our money out.”

“What do they manufacture?” Diedre asked, as always filled with curiosity.

“They make airplanes. We invested in the company because of its potential, and because I have long believed that airplanes will become a mode of travel for the entire world. One day. Imagine boarding an airplane and floating up in the sky, crossing the English Channel or the Atlantic Ocean, and landing in a foreign land.
Marvelous.
”

“That it would be,” she agreed, then asked, “Why are you so unsettled about the company now, all of a sudden?”

“It's not all of a sudden. I've thought it was dicey for a while. Gut instinct, I guess, and I always pay attention to that. It's what my father taught me to do. And I never ask myself how much money am I going to make on this deal? Rather, I ask myself how much could I lose?”

“And you think you'll lose a lot, if you're having qualms about the deal,” Diedre asserted.

“Correct. And we can't afford that. Cavendon can't afford it. The estate is a big burden for your father, but then, you know this. Hugo and I hope to sell our shares to the company and put the proceeds into a new roof on the North Wing of the house.”

“I know the upkeep is costly, as well as repairs,” Diedre murmured, thankful that Hugo and Paul were making sure Cavendon was safe. For the moment.

Paul said, “Here's our lunch, darling. I don't know about you, but I'm starving.”

She did not respond, took a sip of champagne.

“After lunch, I thought we might walk across the street to Cecily's shop in Burlington Arcade. So that you can choose some of her clothes. They would be my engagement present to you, Diedre.”

“How lovely of you, Paul. That's so thoughtful. Thank you.”

“New York can be quite cold in winter,” Paul explained, then continued, “How shall we celebrate our engagement, Diedre? I would like to invite the family to dinner at the Savoy. Rather a nice place for a celebration, with Carroll Gibbons and his band, the music and the dancing. What do you think?”

“It would be fantastic. You're very spoiling.”

“You ain't seen nothing yet, lady,” he said in a very heavy American accent. “I'm gonna spoil you to death.”

Diedre laughed, and then felt a little cold shiver run down her spine. Somebody walked over my grave, she thought, remembering the old Yorkshire explanation for such shivers.

She picked up her fork, took a bite of the sole. As she did so she felt a wave of nausea sweep over her and put the fork down.

Looking across at Paul, she said, “I think we should get married in London, don't you?”

“I do indeed. And then we'll sail off to New York on the
Aquitania
 … that will be our honeymoon.”

 

Thirty-seven

The theater was as quiet as the grave. Not a rustle, not the faintest whisper. The silence was a palpable thing. Dulcie was certain that if she so much as sighed it would sound like a loud cough.

The concentration of the audience was on the man who had just walked back onto the stage. It was so intense, this scrutiny of him, there was electricity in the air, expectation bordering on tension.

The man paid no attention to the actress curled up on a chaise toward the back of the stage. He came to a stop at a low jutting stone wall, half broken, set in the center of the boards.

He stood there in total silence. Then he moved. Not much, only one step, but Dulcie felt everyone stiffen around her.

He lifted his right leg and put his foot on the low wall. Then he rested his right hand on his right knee, and leaned forward slightly. His face was in profile, and what a profile it was. He was the most handsome man Dulcie had ever seen.

Finally he spoke. His voice was mellifluous, rising and falling with a superb musicality. “To
be
 … or not to be.
That
is the
question
.”

He paused for a long moment, and then went on swiftly in a rush of words, “Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing …
end them.
”

The actor moved once more. He straightened his back and looked off into the distance, his face reflective.

He dropped his voice an octave or two when he spoke again. “To die … to sleep … No more.” There was a tiny pause, and then he went on, again in the swift rush, “And by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd.”

Seating himself on the wall, his elbow on his knee, he cupped his chin in one hand, and looked out at the audience. Lifting his head, he spoke, his voice deeper, richer, now. “To die … to sleep … perchance to dream.” His voice became sharper when he continued, “
Ay, there's the rub!
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come … when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause … There's the respect that makes calamity of so long a life.”

Dulcie was captivated, completely mesmerized by James Brentwood, whom she had never seen in a play before until tonight. He was brilliant. She understood now why they called him one of the greatest actors on the English-speaking stage, if not
the
greatest. His rendering of Shakespeare's famous soliloquy was more conversational than declarative, and that was why she better understood its meaning. His interpretation of Hamlet was different. New, fresh, bold; she felt he
was
Hamlet, and that he was speaking directly to her. And she supposed the entire audience felt the same.

As the play continued she became more and more wrapped up in the actor and his words, totally oblivious to everyone else. Her eyes never left the stage and she was unaware of Daphne looking at her surreptitiously. She had even forgotten her sister and Hugo were in the theater.

What existed for her was this superb man, an actor of extraordinary talent and power, who had transported her to another level, another place. To be able to act like this … what a gift. That was what it was. A gift from God.

His voice washed over her, lilting, warm, cold, hard, gentle, and crazed. Every emotion seemed to pour out of him and his mouth. She had always understood it was a play about love, jealousy, revenge, lust, and madness, and yet she felt as though she had never seen it before.

She gave herself up to him and his art. He commanded the stage and his presence on it was charismatic.

He had the audience in the palm of his hand … the world in his arms, she thought, unable to tear her eyes away from him. She had become his devotee.

*   *   *

The play had come to an end at last. And Daphne was taking hold of her arm, and speaking to her, but Dulcie did not hear her. Her mind was on James Brentwood. Gone from her. No longer dominating her. He was off the stage after six curtain calls. Hamlet had gone, for this night at least.

I have to come back tomorrow, she thought, I must. I must see it again … and again and again.

“Dulcie, are you paying attention? What's the matter with you?” Daphne was holding her arm tighter, and Hugo was staring at her, puzzled, as they edged their way up the aisle toward the exit signs.

“I'm sorry,” she mumbled, forcing herself to speak. “I'm just stunned by him, by his acting. What a performance.”

“He's marvelous, that's true. And now we are going to the stage door. We were invited to go to his dressing room by Mr. Lambert. I told you. Don't you remember, Dulcie?”

“Oh. We're going to meet him. Actually meet
him
?” Dulcie sounded startled.

“Why yes, darling, I told you. After I ran into them at Brown's Hotel, and mentioned I was coming to the play, Mr. Brentwood invited us to come backstage. And then a day later, I received a charming note from Mr. and Mrs. Lambert inviting us to supper. At Rules, the lovely old restaurant in Maiden Lane. And I accepted.”

Dulcie scowled. “I don't remember … I think you must have told me when I was busy going around with my tin cup.”

Hugo laughed. “I shall have to put something into that tin cup of yours, Dulcie. Now, come along, the two of you, don't dawdle. We must go out and around to the stage door. I don't want to keep people waiting.”

“But he has to take his makeup off,” Daphne said as she hurried after Hugo, holding on to Dulcie's arm.

*   *   *

James Brentwood had two dressing rooms at the Old Vic, both with stars on their doors. The one he actually used was private. It was there that he did his makeup; took it off; dressed; undressed; relaxed, or dozed when he needed peace and quiet. Only three people were allowed inside for any length of time: his dresser, Sid Miller; Felix Lambert; and Felix's wife and business partner, Constance.

The room next door, also his dressing room, was the place where he saw friends and colleagues after the play, mingled, chatted for a while, being congenial. There was a tall folding Chinese screen standing along a wall on one side of the room, which concealed a door to his real dressing room. And that was how he managed to escape when he wanted to slip away, bring an end to the evening without being too obvious about his need to escape to his personal life.

Felix was with James in his private dressing room as he took off his makeup. He confided in a low voice, “I thought Helen was a bit off tonight, didn't you?”

“I did,” Felix responded. “But only you and I noticed it.”

“And Constance,” James added, glancing over his shoulder at his manager and best friend.

“That goes without saying; she's never missed a trick in her life. At least to my knowledge. But Helen has been off several times this past week. I think she's fighting a cold. Something ails her.”

“I'll talk to her tomorrow, pay her a few compliments; it always seems to do the trick,” James said. “With Helen, anyway.”

“I think she's done extremely well, considering. She's young, a novice, really. This
is
her first leading role, after all, Jamie. And frankly, Ophelia's a lousy part. Even the most talented and experienced actresses groan aloud about it. It's a thankless role, in fact.”

Before James could respond, there was a knock on the door, and Constance poked her head around it. “Lady Daphne has arrived. Take your time, Jamie, and you too, Felix. I shall look after them. Oh, and Jamie, I just had a message. Avery Cannon is popping in to say hello shortly.”

Swinging around in his chair, James gave her a loving smile. “He's always welcome … what would we do without him? And it's Lady Daphne, plus her husband? I do know his name, but I can't recall it at the moment.”

“Stanton, Hugo Stanton. And she has her sister with her as well. Dulcie Ingham,
Lady
Dulcie, actually.”

James nodded. “I'll be out soon. Why don't you go and join them, Felix, share your considerable charm. It'll be much faster if I'm here alone with Sid. He'll have me dressed in a tick.”

“Good thought,” Felix agreed, and left the private dressing room with his wife.

Sid, who had just taken out a clean white shirt for James, said in a low, confiding voice, “None of me business, Jamie, but she ain't keepin' good company. Helen, that is. She don't use her loaf, that she don't.” Sid was a Cockney like James, and came from Bow, where James had grown up.

Wiping off the last of the makeup, James frowned. “She's not using her head about the company she keeps? Who is he?”

“Some bloody toff. Don't know 'is name, but mebbe she's burnin' a candle at both ends. Get what I mean?”

“I do indeed, Sid. Thanks for the tip.”

Sid merely grinned. He took the shirt, shook it, slipped it on a coat hanger, and hung it on the doorknob. “She's a real looker,” he announced.

“I'm well aware of that, but she was definitely off her mark tonight.”

“Not Helen, Jamie. I'm talkin' abart Lady Muck.”

James laughed. “I know she is, I've met her before, and she has a very nice husband, by the way. Bring me some real news.”

“Ain't got none.” He disappeared into the small closet and returned holding a suit on a hanger. “'Ere's yer whistle and flute; I picked the dark blue, and it's pressed.”

“Thanks. Pour me a shot, Sid, will you, please?” As he spoke, James went into the bathroom to wash off the last vestiges of the night's makeup with soap and water.