by Hazel Gaynor
He tells me I sound like royalty and settles beside me. “How is your evening going?”
“Very well. Everyone has been very pleasant and I haven’t offered to turn down anyone’s beds yet, so I think I’m convincing enough.”
He smiles. “You’ve made quite an impression. Everyone wants to know who you are.”
“I hope you didn’t tell them the truth!”
“I tell them you’re a bright new star on the rise. A protégée of Loretta’s. It is, after all, the truth.”
I smile. “Mostly.”
We sit in silence for a while, watching the inky-blue sky as the first stars appear. It reminds me of the Van Gogh painting inside. “The sight of the stars makes me dream.”
“Did you know, Miss Lane, that there are more stars in the sky than there are grains of sand on all the beaches in the world.”
“Really?”
“Yes! It’s unfathomable, isn’t it?”
I rest my palms on the cool stone behind me, leaning back so that my head tilts skyward. “I’ve always loved the stars. When I was little I used to pretend that the sky was a piece of black velvet. I imagined the stars were tiny pinpricks, little holes punctuating the material. Do you think we all have our own star to guide us, like they say?”
“Perhaps. It would be nice to think so.” Perry leans back beside me. “‘When he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of Heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night, and pay no worship to the garish sun.’”
“That’s beautiful. Did you write it?”
“If only I could write anything as beautiful. It’s Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet. The eternal star-crossed lovers.”
We sit in silence for a while, watching the stars. I fiddle with the beading on my dress while he picks at a loose thread on his sock.
“Miss Lane, I wanted to thank you for listening to me last night, and for being so honest about . . . well . . . everything.” He turns to look at me. “And there’s something else. Something I wanted to say to you . . .”
The band strikes up on the terrace, interrupting him. Voices and laughter move closer toward us.
“There you are, Peregrine. What are you doing hiding out here? Come and dance with me, you rotten man. The band is killing!”
It is Bea and several others. Perry stands up, brushes down his trousers, and holds out his hand to help me up. “Miss Lane, did I introduce you to a very good friend of mine, Miss Bea Balfour?”
She smiles graciously and takes my hand. “We already met, Perry. You really are a dreadful host! It is a pleasure to meet you—again—Miss Lane. I’ve heard so much about you.”
I am again struck by her beauty and her relaxed manner around Perry. I manage a smile and mumble a thank you, trying to ignore the overheard conversation between herself and Violet that dances about in my mind.
Perry hesitates, floundering between us. “Would you like to come up to the house to dance, Miss Lane?”
I decline as graciously as I can. “You go ahead. I’ll come up in a minute. I’d like to look at the stars a little longer.”
His questioning eyes meet mine. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. It feels like a night for watching shooting stars.”
“But do come in soon,” Bea adds, grabbing Perry’s hand. “The band really is fabulous.”
I watch them walk back together toward the lights and the music, her arm looped through his, her head resting on his shoulder. They look for all the world like a happily married couple. I try to imagine that it is me walking so easily alongside him, but the image doesn’t quite fit.
I think of how I used to rest my head on Teddy’s shoulder.
Dear Teddy.
Don’t forget me, Dolly. Look for me in the stars.
I think about the drawings on the Embankment pavements. I think about the last time I saw him. I think about everything that awaits when I return to London, and I sit alone in this beautiful place, with a million stars and the velvet sky and my thoughts and dreams and the sound of jazz drifting through the warm night. And it is enough.
It is more than enough.
For a girl like me, it is perfect.
41
DOLLY
“Perhaps we all become more colorful, more fascinating as we reach our autumn months.”
After a while I wander away from the house toward the gardens, where I’m surprised to find Loretta sitting alone on a bench.
“Miss May? What are you doing here? I thought you’d be up there showing them all how to dance!”
She smiles. “They don’t need me. They’ll make their own amusement now the cocktails are flowing. I wanted a little peace and quiet.” She pats the empty bench beside her. “Sit with me. I’ve been watching the leaves on the trees. Look at them, dancing in the breeze. Perfectly in time to the music. It’s quite enchanting.”
I settle down beside her and watch the nod of the branches and the sway of the leaves, illuminated by a string of lights between the branches. She is right. They do seem to be dancing to the music. I notice she is holding a crimson leaf in her hand.
“It’s a little early for autumn leaves, isn’t it?”
She twirls the leaf by its stem. “This is my lucky leaf. When I was a little girl my father taught me to catch falling autumn leaves and make a wish,” she says. “I couldn’t believe the stiff and starchy man I usually only saw in the parlor was leaping around, chasing leaves as the breeze blew them just out of his reach. I was mesmerized by him. I’ll never forget it. Leaves and shooting stars. That’s what I remember most about my father.”
“Shooting stars?”
“He told me that a shooting star is a dying star. They always held a sadness for me after he’d told me that.” She sighs and closes her eyes. She looks tired beneath the lights. “It’s curious, isn’t it, Miss Lane, how things are often at their most beautiful when they are at the end of their life. Shooting stars, autumn leaves. Nobody notices the leaves when they’re all green and lush in the summer—only when they turn crimson and golden in the autumn. Perhaps we all become more colorful, more fascinating as we reach our autumn months.”
A tear slips down her cheek as she speaks. “Miss May? What is it?”
She turns to face me and grasps my hand. “I am an autumn leaf, Miss Lane. A shooting star. My time to shine is coming to an end.”
An uncomfortable feeling stirs in my stomach. “What do you mean?”
“I am not well, dear girl. I’m afraid I’m not well at all.”
I sit beside this great beauty who has become so much more to me than a famous theater star, and only now do I feel her bones, like sticks, through her skin. Only now do I see the gray shadows under her eyes, the sickly pallor of her skin. I think of the past few months, how she has reduced her performance schedule, how she has become tired more quickly, her increasing episodes, taking to her bed, drinking heavily.
I swallow hard. “How bad is it?”
“I am afraid it is the worst, Miss Lane. The very worst.”
I cannot move. Cannot respond other than to say how sorry I am. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything.”
The laughter and music from the house drifts around us. The sky is alight with stars. I think again of the Van Gogh painting—“The sight of the stars makes me dream”—and let the tears fall silently.
“What will you do?” I ask when I’ve composed myself a little.
“What can anyone do? I must accept it and embrace the time I have left. I have lived a most wonderful life, Miss Lane, but now I must take my bow. My cousin has a delightful little place in Devon. Quiet. Private. The perfect place to slip away.”
“But what about your family? And friends. Won’t you want them with you . . . at the end?”
“What for? So we can all feel miserable together and weep into our brandy? I’d prefer to say my good-byes while I can still hold my head up high. Who needs to w
atch me dribbling onto a pillow? I can’t think of anything worse. I shall say my farewells and then it will just be me, a nurse, and the sea to witness my demise.”
I dare hardly ask the question. “When will you go?”
“The end of the week. And I shall leave safe in the knowledge that I have taught you well and that in you, my star will shine ever on.”
Her words brush against my skin, sending goose bumps rippling along my arms, each tiny hair standing up, reaching toward her to take notice, to remember. I grasp her hands in mine and we watch the leaves dancing on their branches.
“I will be wonderful, Miss May. I will be a shining star because you have taught me. You will be the breeze that keeps me dancing. I won’t let you down. I will never let you down.”
She rubs my arm affectionately. “And would you do me a small favor?”
“Of course. Anything.”
“Would you meet Perry for afternoon tea at Claridge’s every now and again? It’s become a thing of his. I think he rather likes it there.”
On my final morning at Nine Elms, I wake to a lovely sense of calm. Most of the guests have left and there is a wonderful stillness about the place, like a long exhale after a held breath.
On my breakfast tray, I find an envelope. I sit up in bed and take the page from inside.
My dear Miss Lane,
You once said that real life is full of kinks and creases. That nobody is perfect. That people are very good at messing things up, but not so good at setting things right, and that is why being a chambermaid was the most important job in the world. Do you remember? You made me laugh so much that I nearly choked on my tea!
You have always made me laugh, Miss Lane, and for that I will be forever in your debt.
You turned my world upside down when you bumped into me in the rain all those months ago. I always insisted you knocked me down, but I now know that you helped me up. I was adrift long before I met you. You offered me your hand, and I took it without a moment’s hesitation. Something changed in that moment, and like a drowning man, I have clung to it ever since.
And now there is something I must tell you. I would be grateful if you would meet me by the pond this morning.
I will be waiting.
Perry
I eat scraps of breakfast and dress in a hurry. The early-morning sun dazzles as I make my way to the pond. He is sitting on his jacket, threading daisies into a chain.
I spread my shawl onto the grass and sit beside him.
The lawns roll away from us like velvet, peppered here and there with a birdbath or a privet hedge or a poplar tree. Beyond the formal gardens the fields dip and roll. Cotton-wool sheep graze idly, their backs illuminated by the strengthening sun. A blackbird settles in a bush behind us and takes up his song. It reminds me of the military hospital in Maghull, of the blackbird that always sang beyond the window, of the butterfly that refused to fly away.
“Thank you for coming. I’d intended to write everything in a letter, but I couldn’t find the words. I hope I can find them now.”
My heart beats wildly. I’m not sure what I want him to say.
“The thing is, Miss Lane, that I’ve spent my entire life trying to live up to other people’s expectations—my father’s, my lieutenant’s, my so-called friends’. I jump to others’ commands. I take aim and pull the trigger when they tell me to. Instructions, rules, expectations. Always singing to someone else’s tune.” He pulls a daisy from the lawn and sighs a long deep sigh. “And then you came along and I remembered who I am. You helped me to find the man I want to be. You helped me more than you can ever know. And for that, I thank you, Miss Lane. I have grown to care for you deeply.”
I pick a daisy, pulling the tiny petals off one by one, remembering the innocent game my sisters and I used to play. He loves me. He loves me not. I pick at the petals in turn as Perry continues to speak.
“In fact, there was a time when I thought I was falling in love with you, Miss Lane. I am not ashamed to admit it, and I am certain you have sensed it, or seen it in my face.” I think of all those lost moments and held breaths. All the times I have wondered. “But there has always been someone else. No matter how often I have tried to deny it or ignore it, she has always been there; an inescapable part of my life. A part of me. I presume it is the same for you with Teddy? Always thinking about him. Always wondering, even when he is far away.”
I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my cheek against them. “Yes. That’s exactly what it is like.”
“You see, Miss Lane, I am not the boy who fell in love with Bea Balfour all those years ago. Neither am I the shy young man who knew it would please my parents if I were to marry her. I am a man who has done unspeakable things, and in my reluctance to tell her the truth about Oscar, I’ve forgotten the biggest truth of all.”
“And what is that, Mr. Clements?”
He looks at me with those eyes. Gray puddles to drown in. “The truth is that I have always loved Bea, and always will. And that is why I have asked her to marry me.”
I feel light-headed. “You have?”
“Yes. And I have you and my sister to thank for making me see sense.”
“Your sister?”
“Loretta has always wanted to see the two of us married. It is her dying wish. My only regret is that I didn’t ask Bea years ago.”
His delight is clear to see, etched onto his cheeks in the warmth of the sun. I pull the last petal from the daisy. He loves me not. And in that moment, I know. I know that a girl like me could never truly love a man like Perry. Although the fabrics we are dressed in come from the same London fashion houses, the fabrics of our souls are stitched from very different things. I have imagined being in love with Perry Clements. I became as fascinated with him as he was with me. I’ve dreamed about him, wondered about him, but there was always a doubt and there was always a question. What about Teddy?
“Then I am very happy for you both,” I say. “She is very lovely, and you are clearly the happiest man in England.”
He can’t deny it. “Thank you, Miss Lane. For understanding and for encouraging me to open my heart.”
“You have nothing to thank me for, Perry. What else would a friend do?”
He stalls. “You called me Perry.”
“Yes, I did. You’re not my employer anymore. This isn’t a business arrangement, is it? We are just two friends, sharing happy news on a lovely morning.”
He stands up and helps me to my feet.
“Do you remember when we first met in the tearooms?” I ask.
He nods. “Please don’t remind me. I have been such a fool around you.”
“We spoke about neither of us being a very good swimmer. You said we should keep our feet on terra firma since we would be no good at rescuing each other.”
He smiles. “Yes, I remember. And it’s true. I’m a terrible swimmer. I never even liked paddling in this pond.”
“But there are other ways to rescue a person, aren’t there? People can be saved in all sorts of ways.”
He lifts my shawl and wraps it around my shoulders, and as the sun bathes the lawns in a soft golden light, we stand together, side by side, and my heart soars, not with the sensation of desire or infatuation, but with the gentle caress of affection, of being truly cared for; of being someone who matters.
42
DOLLY
Her “last season’s clothes” become my brand-new, and I am thrilled with them.
There was much that changed during the few days I spent at Nine Elms. While Perry and I danced the first hesitant steps of a newfound friendship, Miss May began to fade away, like a breath on glass. We couldn’t bear to leave her, but we also knew she couldn’t bear to see our pity, so we held back our tears. “You all look beastly when you cry,” she said. “I want to remember you as beautiful young things, not sniveling wretches.” Perry said she was the only person he knew who could become more formidable as they were dying. We all laughed. We laughed a lot. We laughed w
ith her in public, and we cried for her in private.
I can’t believe I will never see her again.
When I return to The Savoy, I discover that much has changed there too.
“Gladys left!” Sissy explains. “Packed her things and off she’s gone to Hollywood. Heading off on a steamer to take a part in a talking movie.”
I can’t believe it. “Really?”
“Yes. She impressed Larry Snyder just like she told us she would. Turns out she wasn’t cracked in the head after all! And she asked me to give you this.”
She passes me a small paper packet. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, is the scallop-edged powder compact and a note.
Dear Dolly,
I’m going to America! Larry Snyder thinks I have the perfect face for the movies and I sail tomorrow. I hoped to see you before I go, but it has all happened so suddenly. O’Hara is most put out!
Before I go, I owe you an apology. It was me who put the hair comb beneath your pillow. I did a dreadful thing, Dolly, and I’m so sorry for it. Snyder wanted to get your attention. He asked me to help. I would never have done it, only he promised me that he would intervene and make sure you weren’t dismissed. My judgment was clouded by my dreams and desires. I wanted to impress him. I was flattered by his attention. I would have done anything for him, and I was a silly fool.
Thankfully, it all worked out. You kept your job and my audition was a success. Even so, I am ashamed of what I did. When you want something badly enough you will risk anything for it—even friendship.
I have left you the powder compact you always admired. It was my absolute favorite and I hope that by my giving it to you, you will know how truly sorry I am.
Perhaps I will see you across the pond sometime? Wish me luck!
Gladys
X
Suddenly everything makes sense.
“What does she say?” Sissy asks.
“It was Gladys who put the hair comb under my pillow. Snyder asked her to do it to get my attention.”
“Well, he did that all right.”
