The Golden Prince (51 page)

Marigold felt more like slitting her throat than joining in the general chatter. Alone of all her sisters, her life had become as flat as a pancake. Iris did at least have the baby to look forward to—and though it was hard to understand why, she was also blissfully happy living at Sissbury with the chinless Toby, who had recently bought himself out of the Guards.

Rose was in the throes of a love affair with Hal Green—and having met Hal, Marigold was, for the first time in her life, envious of her bluestocking sister.

As for Lily … When it came to Lily, words failed her. Because King George wouldn’t give his consent for her and David to marry—and because David had vowed to marry her even if it meant renouncing his succession to the throne—Lily had decided to marry Rory.

“She’s doing it to prevent David from denying his destiny,” Rose had said to her.

Rory hadn’t denied Lily’s motive, but he’d added that though Lily didn’t realize it yet, he was going to be far better for her than David ever would be.

All Marigold knew was that all her hopes of becoming sister-in-law to the Prince of Wales—and one day sister-in-law to the King—were in ruins.

With Snowberry now a house full of wedding plans, she had put a temporary end to visits there—especially after her last visit, when Piers Cullen had unexpectedly turned up, demanding to see Lily.

Mercifully, Lily had been at Sissbury, discussing with Iris the plans for the small reception that was to be held at Snowberry after her and Rory’s wedding.

“Lily isn’t here,” she’d said to him and then, thinking herself rather clever, had added, “She’s visiting relatives on the Isle of Islay.”

“You’re a bloody liar!”

He had been so furious she had thought he was going to hit her. Instead, white-lipped and cobra-eyed, he had stormed back to his car and roared off down the drive, missing Homer by inches.

“The star of the movie is Mary Pickford,” Zac Zimmerman was saying to those about to watch it. “She’s a great gal. Every nickelodeon in the country is showing a one-reeler or a two-reeler that I’ve featured her in. Give it another year and she’ll be as famous as blueberry pie.”

Marigold was listening to him with only half an ear. If all her sisters’ love lives were going great guns, hers certainly wasn’t. Making that fact even worse was all the fuss
Tatler
was making about Maxim’s forthcoming wedding to Anne Greveney. A leading article had been gushing.

When she first read the article, Marigold had wondered what had been included in the parures. Usually such a large set of jewelry included a diadem, a necklace, drop earrings and stud earrings, a brooch, and a bracelet. Sometimes it even included a waist clasp and hair combs.

Even worse than the thought of all the jewels that could have been hers, and now never would be, was the way she was being cold-shouldered by people she had assumed were her friends. Without casting a poor reflection on himself, Maxim had spread enough salacious rumors about her to ensure she now rarely received invitations to parties or weekends in the country. If it wasn’t for Sibyl, who was unconventional enough to stand by her, her social life would have been zilch.

The lights were lowered, the jerky movie began, and for a brief half hour Marigold forgot all about Maxim and Anne Greveney. She wanted to be Mary Pickford. She wanted to be up there on the screen, one minute in the arms of a dashing hero, next minute struggling against the lecherous hold of a wicked villain. She wanted to be tied to a railway track and rescued seconds before a train thundered down on her. She wanted to be seen and adored by thousands and thousands of cinemagoers. In a moment of shattering revelation, she knew what she wanted to be. She wanted to be a movie star.

That evening, when the guests who had attended the private viewing were seated around Sibyl’s mammoth dinner table, the talk was all about Hollywood and the movies.

“But what about New York?” Ivor Conisborough asked Zac Zimmerman, bemused. “Are you telling me films aren’t being made there anymore?”

“Of course they are. It’s where Biograph is still based. But in the little village of Hollywood, moviemakers don’t have to pay the fees demanded by Thomas Edison. He’s the guy who owns the patent on the moviemaking process. Also, the mild weather and the reliable sunlight make it possible to film movies outdoors year-round. Hollywood is already home to more than a dozen film companies—and larger studios are becoming the norm.”

He leaned back in his chair, a big burly man with a shock of silver hair and a luxuriant mustache and beard.

Marigold made no attempt to take part in the conversation. When she spoke to Mr. Zimmerman, it would be when he was on his own.

One of Sibyl’s closest friends, Delia Conisborough, rested her chin on the back of her hand and said, intrigued, “Are films going to become longer, Mr. Zimmerman?”

“Heck, yes. Over here, in Britain, Will Barker of Barker Motion Photography has just finished making a full-length feature film about King Henry VIII, and he intends to make a film about Queen Victoria and another about one of Edward IV’s mistresses, Jane Shore. Or is it Jane Shire?”

“Shore,” Delia Conisborough said, amused.

“I’m going to do the same kind of thing, Lady Conisborough. I’m going to be making historical epics. Biblical epics.”

Lord Stamfordham, who was seated next to Sibyl, said drily, “Big would seem to be in fashion. A fellow countryman of yours, Colonel John Jacob Astor, tells me he is leaving for New York tomorrow aboard the
Titanic
.”

Zac Zimmerman grinned at him. He liked trumping the British. “And so,” he said with great satisfaction, “am I.”

The conversation turned from moviemaking to what Lord Stamfordham declared was one of the greatest works of man: the
Titanic
.

Marigold, thanks to Rose’s firsthand descriptions, knew a great deal about the liner. She knew that the first-class dining room simulated the decorations of Hatfield House, the Jacobean mansion that was home to the Marquess of Salisbury, and that the dining room’s annex was covered with Aubusson tapestries.

“The first-class lounge is decorated and furnished in the style of Versailles,” Rose had said to her when she had returned from being shown around the ship on its press day. “The palm court is in the style of Louis XVI—mother would feel very at home in it—and the staterooms are Italian Renaissance gone mad.”

Rose was far too aware of working-class poverty to have drooled over such excessive luxury, but Marigold would have liked the opportunity to have drooled. An Italian Renaissance stateroom would, she felt, suit her very well.

When dinner was over, and when the men had finished their port and cigars and had rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, Marigold chose her moment. Excusing herself from the people she had been speaking with, she sashayed across the room to waylay Zac Zimmerman.

Her Titian hair was piled high on her head, in a way that looked as if the slightest movement would send it tumbling down to her waist in a torrent of waves and curls. Her gown was sizzling turquoise and designed by Poiret. The neckline plunged front and back, revealing porcelain-white skin. The skirt was slashed to the knee, and her arms were bare except for a thick silver bracelet clamped above one elbow.

Zac Zimmerman watched her approach with appreciation, hypnotized by the way her body moved beneath the clinging fabric.

As when she had first met Strickland, Marigold knew exactly what it was she wanted, and when she came to a halt in front of him, she didn’t waste time in small talk.

“When we were at the theater I heard you describe Mary Pickford as ‘the Girl with the Golden Curls’ and ‘the Nation’s Sweetheart,’ Mr. Zimmerman.”

He nodded. “I sure did. Because that is what she is.”

“Yet at the dinner table you said you wanted to make epics. Biblical epics.”

Her voice had a sexy throaty catch to it. He found it as bewitching as her face.

Entranced, he wondered if she was wearing anything beneath her seductive gown and, doubting it, said, “I did—and I meant it.”

In the background someone had begun to play the piano. Both of them ignored it.

“What kind of Bible stories were you thinking of making into epics, Mr. Zimmerman?”

Her manner was amused and teasing, as if she knew his answer would make a fool of him and as if that was what she wanted. Not seeing how a straight answer could give her her wish, he said, “Judith and Holofernes. Samson and Delilah. Salome and John the Baptist.”

Marigold tilted her head a little to one side. “What did Judith do to Holofernes, Mr. Zimmerman?”

“She cut off his head while he was asleep.”

“What did Delilah do to Samson?”

“She cut off his hair to destroy his strength in order that he would be captured by his enemies.”

“What did they do when they caught him?”

“They put red-hot pokers in his eyes to blind him.”

Marigold smiled seraphically.

“What did Salome do to John the Baptist?”

“She caused him to have his head chopped off.”

Marigold’s smile deepened. “Do you really think, Mr. Zimmerman, that Mary Pickford, with her demure little face and golden curls, could ever play the part of any one of those women?”

Zac stared at her, and then said slowly, “No. I guess I don’t.”

“I could. I could act Mary Pickford off the screen.”

Looking at her, he found it quite easy to believe.

“So what is it you want, Miss Houghton?”

It was an unnecessary question, and both of them knew it.

“It’s Marigold. I want you to take me with you when you return to Hollywood.”

“I guess you missed what I said at the dinner table, Marigold. I sail on the
Titanic
tomorrow.”

“I know.”

Something stirred in him that hadn’t stirred for a long time. She had no ticket, and it would be a devil of a job squaring things with the purser. He could do it, though. By God he could.

Over her shoulder he could see her great-aunt approaching them. “Be in Southampton, at the dockside, by ten o’clock tomorrow morning. She sails at midday.” Then, to Sibyl, he said, “Your titled guests seem to have enjoyed my picture show, Lady Harland. It’s been very gratifying.”

Marigold didn’t stay to hear any more. She had a lot of decisions to make. It was already eleven o’clock at night, far too late to travel down to Snowberry and then, in the morning, leave Snowberry for Southampton. If she had to be at the dockside by ten o’clock, there was far too little time in the morning to make a detour to Snowberry. Which meant she was going to be leaving the country without saying good-bye to anyone.

She didn’t think it mattered too much about Iris. Iris was too absorbed in her new role in life as a wife and expectant mother to be too concerned if she left for a long stay in America. Sailing tomorrow would mean missing Lily’s wedding to Rory, but as Lily was going to be living on Islay after the wedding and she would then see her only rarely anyway, she didn’t think not being able to tell Lily good-bye mattered much either. Rose and her grandfather were, however, a little different.

Not in a million years would Rose approve of her sailing to America at a moment’s notice—and especially not in the company of a man twice her age whom she had only just met. The row between them would be terrific, which meant it would be far more sensible to simply write a letter to Rose that she would receive after the
Titanic
had sailed.

That left only her grandfather. Her grandfather would be devastated at her leaving without her even saying good-bye to him. Thinking of how great his distress would be, she thought of alternatives. Perhaps she could sail at a later date, on a different ship? But who, then, would pay for her passage? In sailing on the
Titanic
, unsaid, but taken for granted, was that Zac Zimmerman would pay for her passage.

Also, in sailing on another ship she would miss the experience of traveling in decadent luxury.

She would write her grandfather a very loving letter—and when he saw her on the silver screen, her dream fulfilled, he would be so proud of her that he would forgive her the manner in which she’d left England. Where Sibyl was concerned she would also write a letter—and not leave it, but post it. When she left in the morning, she would tell Sibyl she was returning to Snowberry. That way the alarm couldn’t be given, and no one would be sent after her to drag her from the ship.

There was, however, one person she would say good-bye to, and that was Strickland. Strickland was totally unshockable, and it was highly likely that he would, like her, regard Hollywood as being her destiny.