The Golden Prince

by Rebecca Dean

  French doors led from the house out onto a terrace, and she hoped that by standing near to them she could appear to be either on the point of entering the house, or on the point of walking out into the garden, and wouldn’t look to be so obviously unaccompanied.

  A waiter approached her, and she put her empty glass of orange juice on the tray he proffered. As she was picking up another one, Hal entered the crowded room and her heart leaped.

  Then she saw that he wasn’t alone.

  Joy vanished in an instant.

  The woman walking closely at his side and laughing at something he had just said was wearing a cornflower-blue silk dress that emphasized her tiny waist and lovely breasts and looked as if it had come from a Parisian fashion house. Instead of a hat, there was a knot of camellias in hair that was as pale as summer wheat.

  Hal said something else as he smiled down at her. Laughing again, she hugged his arm.

  Not wanting to see any more, Rose turned away so quickly orange juice slopped over her gloved hand.

  She met the gaze of a young girl aged about twelve.

  The girl said, eyeing her with interest, “You’ve just spilled orange juice on your glove.”

  “Yes, I know.” Rose struggled for composure. “It was very clumsy of me.”

  “I’m always doing things like that. I’ve just stood on the hem of my dress and torn it. Papa Hal is going to be very irritated.”

  She’d known immediately, of course, who the child was, but hearing her speak of Hal in such a way transfixed her.

  There was loving indulgence in her voice. It was exactly the way she, and Iris, Marigold, and Lily, often spoke of their grandfather. They did so not because he had done what he felt was right—which was providing them with a roof over their heads—but because he had loved them and cherished them and had never treated them with anything but the most exquisite kindness. In a moment of utter certainty, Rose knew that Jacinta was as fortunate in Hal as she and her sisters had been with their grandfather. She also knew that Theo had been speaking the literal truth when he had said that men like Hal didn’t come along very often.

  “That’s Papa Hal over there.” Jacinta gestured in Hal’s direction. “Do you know him?”

  “A little.”

  The blood was drumming in her ears. If she had behaved differently, there was every possibility she would now be the young woman holding his arm, the young woman who was absorbing all his attention. She didn’t know it was possible to feel such pain, such intense regret, such bitter unhappiness.

  Unaware of Rose’s distress, Jacinta said disarmingly, “My name is Jacinta. What is yours?”

  “Miss Houghton.”

  Panic throbbed high in her throat. She had to leave the party, but she couldn’t cross the room. To cross the room would be to risk attracting his attention.

  “I’d like to go home without having to weave a way through all these groups of people, Jacinta. Is there a gate in the garden that leads into the street?”

  “Yes, but it is right at the bottom of the garden, at the far side of the shrubbery. Would you like me to come with you?”

  “No thank you, Jacinta. I’ll be able to find it.”

  Somehow she managed a good-bye smile and stepped out onto the terrace. It was crowded with people, but no one knew her and no one made any attempt to waylay her in conversation. Swiftly she walked down the steps and onto the lawn. Here, too, there were several groups of people, because although it was still only April, the sun was as warm as if it was May.

  With tears burning the backs of her eyes, she threaded her way between Lord Westcliff’s guests.

  In the house, Jacinta weaved a way toward Hal.

  “You’re going to be very cross with me,” she said when she reached his side, knowing that he wouldn’t be, because he never was. “I’ve trodden on the hem of my dress and torn it.”

  Hal made a facial expression of exasperation that made her laugh.

  “I’ve just been talking to ever such a nice lady,” she said, glad that the blond lady was no longer hanging on to his arm and that she had him to herself. “Her name is Miss Houghton. I would have liked to have talked to her some more, but she said she wanted to go home. She asked if there was a gate in the garden that led into the street. I told her there was, and she walked off so quickly I didn’t have time to say anything else.”

  Partygoers hadn’t ventured into the lower part of the garden and as Rose reached it she walked as quickly as her high heels would allow, desperate to be back in her bedroom at her great-aunt’s where, with the door locked, she could give way to her unhappiness.

  The shrubbery slowed her down, for the path between the high banks of laurels and rhododendrons was narrow and twisting. Suddenly, with the gate not yet in sight, she realized someone was running after her—and that the running footsteps were far too heavy to be Jacinta’s.

  Alarmed, she spun round just as Hal rounded the last corner of the path.

  He came to a halt a yard or so in front of her, saying a trifle breathlessly as he pushed an unruly lock of hair back from his forehead, “Jacinta insisted I came after you. Though to be honest, she didn’t have to insist very much. She’s my adopted daughter, but I know she will have explained that. It’s the first thing she tells anyone. What I want to know is, why are you leaving the party before it has scarcely begun? I promised Gerald I’d introduce you to him and he’s on the terrace, waiting for me to do so.”

  “Gerald?” She hadn’t a clue as to who he was talking about—and didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was behaving toward her as he had always done and—the blonde notwithstanding—that there was a glimmer of hope their relationship was again on its old footing.

  “Gerald,” he repeated with exaggerated patience. “Lord Westcliff. Your host. My uncle.” A thought occurred to him that hadn’t done so before and his eyes darkened in concern. “You’re not ill or anything, are you, Rose?”

  “No.” Since it was impossible to tell him the truth—though she rather thought she would one day—she said, “There was no one I knew and I felt out of place.”

  Amusement replaced his concern. “Hard-nosed journalists don’t care if they know no one. And—trust me, Rose—they never feel out of place.”

  She shot him a wobbly smile. “I’ll try and remember.”

  His answering smile melted her bones. “Come back to the house, Rose. Jacinta wants to talk with you some more and my uncle—who is not accustomed to waiting for people—is still waiting for the two of us to put in an appearance.”

  He crooked his arm in order that she could slip her hand through it.

  She did so, as if doing so was the most natural thing in the world.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask about his blond companion—and then instinct told her that whoever the young woman was, she no longer mattered. Only the new relationship she and Hal were forming mattered.

  As they walked together back to the house she knew that from now on things were going to be all right between them. That they were going to be more than all right. That for her and Hal Green, things were going to be wonderful.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Marigold was in a depression so deep she didn’t know how she was ever going to claw her way out of it. For everyone else, life was roaring along full of interest and excitement and in her life, all interest and excitement had come to a grinding, stultifying halt.

  She was in a cinematograph theater that had been commandeered by Sibyl in order that one of her guests, Mr. Zac Zimmerman, an American director with the American Mutoscope and Biograph Company, could give her and her other guests a private showing of his latest film. Everyone gathered there, apart from Marigold, was in a state of excited anticipation.

  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.

  It is rumored the bride will be wearing the pearl-encrusted gown Prince Yurenev’s mother wore at her wedding. Her fifteen-foot point de Flanders lace veil will be held in place by a tiara containing over three hundred brilliants, the centerpiece being a white sapphire of thirty-seven carats. Wedding gifts already on display at the Yurenev palace in St. Petersburg include a ruby and diamond parure, a gift from the tsar and tsarina, and a parure of diamonds and pearls from the groom’s parents to the bride.

  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.”