Calamity Under the Chandelier

by Camilla Blythe

  Cora’s lips twitched.

  The man was the most stereotypical sort of Italian. Her own father was Italian American and was a singer in Las Vegas. The studio had decided that her mother’s name was more appropriate for an actress. Her father’s career had grown with Cora’s, and he had needed larger and larger rooms to fill with starry-eyed fans as he belted Italian songs few could even understand.

  Signor Palombi swept his gaze across the room, and Cora had the impression that not a single candlestick or teacup would go unnoticed.

  “Why, this is magnifico,” he declared.

  “I’m so glad you like it.” The duchess beamed and clasped her hands to her heart.

  Lord Holt stiffened. Perhaps he thought his mother was behaving in an almost besotted fashion.

  “Archibald will like it too,” Signor Palombi said.

  “He brought another guest?” A scowl formed on Lord Holt’s face.

  “Archibald! Stop inspecting the foyer,” Signor Palombi said, and pitter-patters sounded.

  An adorable small dog with curly white fur stepped into the room.

  “He’s lovely,” the duchess said, bending down to greet the four-legged guest.

  Lord Holt stiffened. “I’ll make sure the rooms are prepared.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Veronica said quickly.

  They left the drawing room, and after a few minutes of conversation with the duchess, the Italian gentleman joined Cora.

  “My name is Achille Palombi.” He swept himself into a bow. “You are lovely. A friend of the famous actress?”

  “We acted as children together.”

  “Are you performing anything now?”

  “Not for the time being,” Cora admitted.

  “Then enjoy Christmas,” the Italian said. “I am told that the English do an excellent Christmas pudding.”

  The dog tilted his head at Cora, as if assessing her, and then strode up to her and licked her shoes.

  “Forgive Archibald,” Signor Palombi said. “He has evidently determined that your shoes have traveled far. He’s never been to California.”

  “His name is Archibald?” she asked.

  “Ah yes,” Signor Palombi said. “I’ve always desired to have an English name myself.”

  “I didn’t know Italians were fond of the English,” she said. “What with Mussolini and all.”

  Signor Palombi’s smile wobbled. “I like the name’s dignity.”

  “Archibald does sound rather venerable,” Cora agreed.

  The dog twirled around, perhaps delighted at being described as respectable.

  “I see I was not the last to arrive,” Signor Palombi said.

  Cora followed the Italian’s gaze to the doorway.

  A man with gray speckled hair and a mustache entered the drawing room. His features seemed composed entirely of chiseled planes: a sturdy jaw, high cheekbones and a nose that managed to not slope up or down. Mr. Bellomo would have dragged him to the casting couch. The strands of silver did not hide the man’s handsomeness.

  “Miss Clarke, isn’t it?” the newcomer asked. “You must be the other starlet.”

  “Indeed.”

  “A pleasure.” His voice was also polished. How did the British manage to make the simplest words sound heavenly? Her mind drifted once again to the strange photographer.

  “My name is Rhys Ardingley.”

  “I’m glad someone fun is here,” Veronica called from the landing. She hurried down the steps, and Lord Holt followed her at a more sedate pace. “We’re going to have a riot. Cora, meet my brother-in-law.”

  “The black sheep, I’m afraid,” Mr. Ardingley said. “Older, but Father was naughty and didn’t marry my mother.”

  “Don’t scare her,” Veronica warned. “This is her first time out of the country.”

  “An ingénue!” Mr. Ardingley tapped his hand over his heart, and his eyes widened. “And you’ve chosen my father’s house to make your foreign debut?”

  “Likely an honor he does not appreciate,” a female voice said.

  Mr. Ardingley’s smile tightened. “Katherine. I did not see you.”

  “Just look down and behind you. That’s generally where I am.”

  “Right.” Mr. Ardingley’s voice croaked, and he stepped away.

  A woman with dark curly hair and thick eyebrows worthy of Joan Crawford sat in a wheelchair.

  “Miss Clarke, please let me present my darling wife,” Mr. Ardingley said smoothly.

  “Oh, you needn’t act so romantic,” Mrs. Ardingley said, pushing down on the wheels to propel herself forward. “Any fool can tell you’re not devoted, and we’re in the presence of two actresses. They can see past your lines. They probably don’t even consider them well-delivered. I certainly don’t.”

  Mr. Ardingley’s cocky grin vanished.

  The woman thrust her hand out to Cora. “Welcome to Chalcroft Park. I see you’re the uninvited guest.”

  “I invited her,” Veronica said quickly. “Cora is my dearest, most darling friend.”

  “Hmph.” Mrs. Ardingley continued to scrutinize her.

  “Perhaps we should retire,” Veronica said. “We had a long voyage.”

  “Dinner is at eight,” Lord Holt said.

  “I remember.”

  “Good.” He nodded curtly and turned away.

  Veronica’s cheeks grew rosy. “Edmund is the strong and silent type.”

  Cora nodded. Perhaps the man made up for any lack of strength with an excess of silence.

  “And he is an earl,” Veronica said again, sliding her hand around Cora’s arm. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  They ascended the steps and entered a long hall. The chairs were pressed against the sides of one wall. The heavy carved furniture seemed discordant with the cozy environment she expected of a home. Still, this was going to be a wonderful visit.

  Chapter Four

  THE FORMALITY IN THE house extended into Cora’s bedroom. The room might lack the animal print upholstery and gold and silver detailing favored by Hollywood’s elite, but the domed canopy bed and the floral curtains draped upon it must be expensive. Matching curtains lined the windows, though these were topped with stiff pelmets. The busy pattern seemed at odds with the increasingly white landscape outside.

  Cora strode to the window.

  The snow was positively racing downward, as if each flake had decided to enter the Grand Prix. Cold air hurtled through cracks in the aged windowpane, and she glanced longingly at the large stone fireplace that dominated one wall. A thick Oriental screen was placed in front of the hearth, presumably to protect from any wayward sparks. Not that any sparks were happening now; the room was chilly. She moved toward the bed, eyeing the abundant compilation of coverlets, bedspreads, quilts, and duvets with pleasure.

  Perhaps she might rest.

  Just for a bit.

  Cora removed her shoes, sat down on the bed, and soon found her eyelids seeming to grow heavy. She lay down and pulled the covers about her.

  And perhaps, just perhaps, she slept.

  A knock sounded, and Cora jerked her torso up.

  The door swung open.

  Cora pushed away the covers. “Veronica?”

  “It’s only me, miss,” a stern voice said. “The maid. One of them.”

  Cora scrambled up, and the blanket lay crumpled around her legs.

  A middle-aged woman scrutinized her. She wore a bulky black dress, the color not muted from no doubt frequent washings, and a crisp white apron. A lace cap perched on her head. The maid pointed to the silk rope that hung from the ceiling. “You should have rung for me.”

  “I—”

  “I’ll make a fire for you,” the maid said. “Even if these aren’t conventional hours.”

  “That’s really not necessary,” Cora declared.

  “Can’t have you sleeping under the covers with your afternoon dress on.”

  Cora wouldn’t have referred to a dark blue frock as an afternoon dress, but cl
early this was the sort of place where one changed for dinner, even if one were merely going downstairs, and not to some riveting new club or movie opening.

  Another maid entered the room. Her uniform was every bit as meticulous, though she was younger than the other maid and wore rouge and lipstick. She stared at Cora.

  Cora knew that look. She’d seen it from star-crazed fans.

  “I can dress her,” the new maid blurted.

  “I never thought you were eager to add more duties,” the first maid said.

  “I am now.”

  “Very well.”

  Cora was glad when the first maid left the room. She’d resembled the school teacher who had taught Cora on the sets of movies, pulling her into a classroom with Veronica and some other child actors, whenever the adults were on break.

  They’d studied arithmetic and reading, while the adults laughed and sipped cocktails.

  Cora had had no desire to sip cocktails in those days, but she’d still been scared of the schoolteacher who’d seemed to work from the assumption that child actors were spoiled, even though unlike most other children, they all worked hard.

  “I’m Gladys,” the new maid said.

  “And I’m—”

  “Cora Clarke.” Gladys’s eyes shimmered. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, miss. Now let’s get you dressed.”

  Cora rose from the bed, still groggy from the hours of travel.

  “I’ve seen every one of your films.”

  “I hope you enjoyed them.”

  “Oh, naturally. Seeing you tap dance on the ceiling. Really, too brilliant.”

  Cora smiled.

  Gladys glanced at Cora’s feet, perhaps half expecting her to burst into dance.

  “Let me unpack for you,” Gladys said. “You must have all sorts of lovely gowns for dinner.”

  “Well—”

  Gladys whisked her clothes into cabinets and wardrobes. None of Cora’s clothing was French, and she didn’t have any tweed, two things that most likely encompassed the vast majority of the other women’s attire. Gladys eventually dressed Cora in her finest gown, murmuring something about how she needed to make a good impression.

  Gladys gave her directions to the dining hall, and Cora strode downstairs, armed in her mint satin gown. Unfortunately, the balloon sleeves seemed a trifle outrageous, and the rest of the gown might have had an overabundance of ruffles.

  Dining with movie stars was one thing, but it was quite another to dine with English aristocrats more than twice her age, who had a penchant for narrowing their eyes at her statements. Most likely her very accent was cause for amusement.

  No matter.

  Cora ignored the uncertainty coursing through her.

  Voices sounded.

  Good.

  She must be near the dining room and she rounded the corner of the hallway. Unfortunately, the dining room was nowhere in sight.

  Signor Palombi and the duchess were speaking in an alcove, and Cora hesitated.

  Are they having a private conversation? But they’ve only just met...

  Cora frowned, and some curiosity caused her to halt.

  “I don’t like seeing you on your own here,” Signor Palombi said. “Not with that man. Come with me, Denisa.”

  Cora was certain referring to a duchess he’d just met by her first name did not follow etiquette rules.

  But the duchess did not seem offended by the man’s impertinence. No slap sounded. In fact, the space between them was very narrow, and they seemed almost to give each other a hug.

  “I can’t. I wish I could follow you there,” the duchess said. “Spend the rest of my life with you, but I-I have commitments.”

  Oh.

  That sounded exactly as if they were having an affair.

  Perhaps that was why the duke and duchess had seemed so cantankerous. They were consumed with their own worries, and Veronica should not dwell on their supposed disapproval.

  “The child is grown,” Signor Palombi said.

  The duchess smiled. “He’s married, but it feels...wrong.”

  Cora stepped back. She refused to eavesdrop further; she’d listened to far too much as it was.

  She crept quietly down the corridor until she eventually heard voices, and this time they did not belong to people in the midst of having illicit affairs.

  Veronica, her husband, the duke and Lady Audrey were sipping martinis. Beyond them was an elaborately decked dining room table. No doubt they were waiting for the others to arrive.

  Thankfully, Lady Audrey was deep in conversation with the duke. She wore a striking black dress that managed to radiate sophistication, if not, precisely, personality. Perhaps she confined her fondness for color to her art.

  Cora entered the room.

  The duke raised his eyebrows and glowered at her. “Ah, we’re only missing four people now. I shouldn’t wonder that my children keep requesting money: even the ability to tell time eludes them and their wives.”

  “I’m here,” Lord Holt said quickly.

  The duke lowered his bushy brows. “I suppose it’s just the ability to make conversation so your presence is known that eludes you.”

  Lord Holt’s cheeks took on a shade of deep rose.

  Mr. Ardingley entered the room. “Were you missing us, Father?”

  “Just remarking on your tardiness,” the duke said.

  “We’re here now.” Mr. Ardingley strode to a bar cart and poured himself a drink as his wife wheeled herself into the room.

  She smoothed her forest green gown, running her hands over the drop waist. The sparseness of her thin shoulder straps was not quite hidden by the navy and green shawl draped about her. The lower half of her dress was composed of a variety of ruffles, and beads sparkled from each layer. No doubt the dress had been expensive at one time, but it was dreadfully out of fashion, and worn shoes peeked from the hem.

  The duke frowned. “For the amount of time it took, I would have expected your wife to look at least somewhat glamorous.”

  “She does,” Mr. Ardingley said.

  “She’s been wearing that dress for the past ten years.” The duke subjected Mrs. Ardingley to a disdainful stare. “Is that your Christmas dress?”

  “I’m sure it hasn’t been nearly that long.” Mrs. Ardingley raised her chin and kept her voice defiant, but the reddening of her skin, even underneath her substantial powder, impeded the effect. “Besides, I cannot walk. And this is comfortable.”

  “Comfort is something sought by the weak,” the duke replied.

  The duchess and Signor Palombi entered the dining room together, and Lord Holt’s knuckles tightened around his martini glass. He swallowed the remainder of his drink, and one of the footman scrambled to replace it.

  The duchess wore a scarlet gown. The bias cut fabric, and the manner in which the silk hugged her body, made it obvious that unlike other women of her generation, she did not achieve her well-proportioned body through the aid of old-fashioned corsets. Rubies sparkled from her throat and wrists. Her sleeves were not puffed or in any manner billowing; she did not require any volume on her shoulders to create the impression of a dainty waist. The duchess’s waist was already slender, despite the cook’s undoubted effort over the past thirty years to place temptations before her.

  “You look well, Ma,” Veronica called out cheerfully.

  “She looks beautiful,” Signor Palombi said firmly.

  “Let’s go in,” the duke said, not commenting on the Italian’s statement. Perhaps he was accustomed to his business partners musing over the attractiveness of his wife.

  Signor Palombi offered Cora his arm. “Allow me.”

  Cora took the man’s arm cautiously, pondering whether he was indeed the Duchess of Hawley’s lover. They settled around the dining room, and Cora took in the dark paneled walls, adorned with all manner of medieval weapons. Her eyes must have widened, for Mr. Ardingley winked.

  She drew back and focused on the less intimidating aspects of the room
. Sconces flickered golden light. The ceiling was painted a pale blue color that might have been intended to mimic the sky on a pretty day, since she’d heard that those were rare in England. So far, she hadn’t seen a blue sky since Arizona. Even New York had been devoid of them.

  Footmen in glossy black attire stood behind them. The frequency of the footmen’s glances at her made it clear they knew her identity, and she stiffened.

  “It’s so quiet in here,” Veronica said loudly. “We require music.”

  The duchess frowned, managing to direct centuries of carefully cultivated aristocratic disapproval, but Veronica only laughed.

  “You mustn’t look so cross,” she said. “I promise to not put anything too shocking on.”

  “We don’t own a gramophone,” said the duchess.

  “Oh, but I do,” Veronica said.

  “Gramophones are more an indulgence for the servant class,” the duke said. “When one has heard the 1812 Overture played at the Royal Albert, one really cannot listen to big band music with all those ghastly brass instruments.”

  “Unless one is tone deaf.” Lady Audrey sipped her glass of wine daintily. “Did I ever mention how truly interesting I thought your Broadway Bonanza of 1936 performance was, Veronica? I could swear your singing voice was much higher pitched in the film. A true soprano. How unexpected when your speaking voice is so deep.”

  Veronica averted her eyes. She’d always despised that her voice had been dubbed in the film. Finally, she raised her chin. “Men find deep voices appealing. You may not know that.”

  Lady Audrey flushed, but she retained a sweet tone. “I merely questioned that you had really used your own voice in the film.”

  “Obviously, the director’s taste was questionable. My singing voice is outstanding.” Veronica tossed her hair.

  Lady Audrey smirked. “Then perhaps you can provide the musical entertainment tonight.”

  “My gramophone will do quite well. Not all of us listen to music as if we’re still scared of the French.”

  “I’m not scared of any frogs.” The duke pounded his fist against the table.

  “We know you’re not,” said the duchess. “Though perhaps you should be frightened by the Germans.”