Queen of Hearts (Royal Spyness Mysteries) (5 page)

“I do not plunder,” Cy Goldman said in his booming voice. “I pay a fair price. They need money. I need their candlesticks and refectory tables. We both end up satisfied. You should see the stuff I’m having shipped back this time: lovely wood paneling I found at this convent near Seville. All carved oak. And stained glass windows dating back to the fifteenth century, wasn’t it?” He turned to Stella for confirmation.

“Sixteenth, Cy. I told you before that the fifteen hundreds are the sixteenth century.”

Cy laughed. “It’s all the same to me. Old is old. And if it’s old I want it in my castle.”

Stella leaned toward us. “And he’s having an entire chapel dismantled and brought across stone by stone, window by window,” Stella said, looking at Cy Goldman as if he were an impossible but adorable child. “And his prize plundering this time is a pair of golden candlesticks absolutely encrusted with jewels.”

“And the painting, Stella. Don’t forget the painting.”

“Oh yes, the painting. A Madonna by El Greco. Found it in a monastery chapel. Cy isn’t letting those out of his sight.”

“Out of reach, honey. They’re locked in the ship’s safe.”

Stella turned away, her eyes scanning the dining room as mine had been. “Where is Juan? Spaniards are always so late. I take it he’s to fill that empty seat at our table?”

“No, Miss Brightwell. I’m afraid the last place at table is to be taken by an American lady,” the captain said. “Ah, here she comes now.”

I looked up to see none other than Mrs. Simpson making her way toward us across the dining room. The men rose to their feet as Mrs. Simpson approached the table, looking glamorous and perfectly groomed as always in a long black beaded dress and white mink around her shoulders.

“I’m so sorry to keep you all waiting, Captain,” she said in that low voice with the slight Southern drawl. “You should have started without me.”

“Oh, but we have,” Mummy said, raising the glass of champagne in Mrs. Simpson’s direction.

“My, my. What a surprise. It’s the actress and her little daughter off on a transatlantic jaunt,” Mrs. Simpson said. “How lovely to see you again.”

“Lovely to see you too, Mrs. Simpson,” Mummy said. “Are you traveling alone? No Mr. Simpson in tow this time?”

“No Mr. Simpson,” she said. “I have a spot of business to attend to in Baltimore and unfortunately no friends were free to accompany me.”

She made it quite clear that by “friends” she meant the Prince of Wales.

“What a pity,” Mummy said. “Still, I’m sure you’ll soon make plenty of friends on the boat.”

“Ship,” the captain corrected.

The two women stared at each other with mutual loathing. They had taken an instant dislike to each other the first time they had met and absence had definitely not made their hearts grow fonder.

“And how are you, Georgiana honey?” Mrs. Simpson turned to me. “Still not married? The family hasn’t managed to hook you up with a dashing European prince?”

“I’m afraid not,” I said. “It seems that the family isn’t very good at hooking anyone up with a suitable spouse.”

I saw the momentary flash of venom in those dark eyes, then she smiled. “My, my. The little one is growing up and developing claws.”

“You must let me introduce the rest of our table companions,” the captain said hurriedly. And he introduced them in turn. I noticed Sir Digby and Lady Porter now looked decidedly pink and uneasy. I suspected that the rumor of Mrs. Simpson’s liaison with the Prince of Wales might have finally reached the outer suburbs, even though the newspapers had been banned from mentioning the topic so far, out of deference to the king and queen.

Dinner was superb. After months of good food at Kingsdowne Place I was less impressed than I might have been when I was one step from starvation and living on baked beans, but I still worked my way merrily through every course. Mrs. Simpson was remarkably quiet for once. She answered questions politely, but that was all. Cy Goldman held the fort with tales of his estate above Malibu and the wild animals he had imported to roam around.

“Isn’t that a little dangerous?” Lady Porter said. “I’ve heard that zebras can be as lethal as lions.”

“We only send the difficult guests to feed them.” Cy gave a big, hearty laugh.

Sir Digby tried to steer the conversation to his wife’s prowess in the amateur theater, making Mummy and Stella exchange grins.

It turned out that Sir Digby and his wife were also crossing the Atlantic for the first time. “Sir Digby was asked to give a lecture at Harvard University and it seemed like too good a chance to turn down,” Lady Porter said. “I must say I was reluctant. We did a cruise on the Med once and I was not the very best sailor, was I, Digby.”

“Turned positively green,” Sir Digby said. “Puking all over the place.”

Lady Porter turned to the captain. “So tell me, Captain. Do ships like this sink very often?”

“Only once, Lady Porter,” the captain said with a straight face.

As we rose to retire to the Palm Court where a band was playing for dancing we saw a dashing young man coming through the crowd toward us. For a second I thought it was Darcy but then I realized that the black hair was slicked down and the skin was a Mediterranean tan, rather than Darcy’s Black Irish coloring. The young man’s dark eyes flashed with pleasure as he saw us, and Stella hurried toward him.

“There you are, Juan. We missed you at dinner.”

“You were invited to the captain’s table,” he said. “But I was put with ladies from Milwaukee.
Madre de Dios
—how they can talk. Where is this Milwaukee, anyway?”

“Not far from Chicago.”

“We will not be visiting this Milwaukee, I pray?”

“Don’t worry. We won’t be going there.”

“Thanks be to God for that,” he said, flashing impossibly white teeth as he smiled.

Stella turned back to us as if reveling in a new toy. “Isn’t he divine?” she asked. “Cy discovered him near Seville when he was plundering another convent. He speaks such good English and has done some acting too. Cy is going to make him a star, in my next movie, in fact. He’s going to play King Philip of Spain to my Mary Tudor.”

“Philip of Spain and Mary Tudor?” Mummy laughed. “They were about the least appealing couple in history. She was old and ugly and religious and he never even slept with her, did he?”

“One doesn’t need to keep strictly to history.” Stella smirked. “It is Hollywood after all.”

“Here’s good old Juan,” Cy boomed, pushing through to join us. “Let’s you and I head for the brandy and cigars, old fellow, and leave the ladies to their chatter, shall we?” He turned to us. “Isn’t he the real deal? Clark Gable will be eating his heart out. And you know who else is the real deal? You, Claire Daniels. You’re still it. The quintessential English rose. I don’t know why you’ve waited so long to be in pictures. But we’re going to remedy that.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m an old woman now. I have a grown-up daughter.” Mummy laughed, but I could tell she was flattered. “Come on, Georgie. Let’s go and find you some dance partners.”

She slipped her arm through mine and led me away. “And don’t take any notice of anything they say, darling,” she muttered as we went back up the stairs. “Nobody says a thing they mean in Hollywood. It’s all a lovely big fake.”

I turned to watch the gorgeous Juan disappearing with Cy Goldman. There was something about him that reminded me of Darcy, apart from the Mediterranean looks and flashing brown eyes. I realized it must have been he I had spotted on the quayside, hurrying to join the ship at the last minute, and not Darcy at all. I gave a little sigh of disappointment. It seemed I had let my imagination run away with me, or maybe my wishful thinking. Darcy was clearly not on board the
Berengaria
. He didn’t even know I was on my way to America. I let my mother steer me in the direction of the Palm Court from which lively musical sounds were emanating. Mummy stood at the entrance, observing the couples on the dance floor and the people sitting at tables, drinking cocktails.

“Nobody here worth knowing,” she said, after her usual rapid assessment. “All the men are still in the smoking lounge. I honestly don’t think I’ll bother to wait around tonight. Some dreary woman like that Lady Digby will corner me and tell me stories about her amateur dramatic society production of Gilbert and Sullivan. I’m going to turn in, Georgie. You can stay and see if you find anyone worth dancing with.”

“There don’t seem to be many people my age,” I said, looking around and not even spotting the overly friendly Mr. Halliday.

“Not in first class, no,” Mummy agreed. “Most of the world can’t afford this kind of little jaunt. You could always have a whirlwind affair with the handsome Spaniard.”

“Mummy, I’m not the sort who has whirlwind affairs. You know that.” I had to laugh. “Besides, he didn’t even notice I existed. If he was ogling anyone, it was you.”

“Really?” she asked innocently, then gave me a self-satisfied smile before heading to her cabin.

O
N
BOARD
THE
B
EREN
GARIA

F
RIDAY
, J
ULY
13, 1934

I awoke the next morning to a light tap on the door and instead of Queenie a steward came in with a tray of tea and biscuits.

“A brisk day, my lady,” he said. “Would you like breakfast in your stateroom?”

“Thank you. That would be lovely,” I said. “Just a boiled egg and some fruit after that large meal last night.”

As I sat up I noticed the cabin rolling. I got up, went to the window and looked out. It was a gray morning and there were whitecaps on the waves. I rang for Queenie, who staggered in looking rather pale.

“It ain’t half going up and down now, miss,” she said. “I hope I ain’t going to be sick. I don’t want to miss out on the food. It’s bloody good, even in the maids’ dining room.”

“I’ve been told the secret is to eat regular small meals, nothing too rich,” I said. “And if you feel sick go outside into the fresh air and focus on the horizon.”

“I’m feeling a bit Uncle Dick right now,” she said.

“Uncle Dick?”

“Rhyming slang for sick,” she said with a weak smile. She actually didn’t look at all well.

“I’ll manage to get myself ready,” I said. “Go out on deck and then have some tea and toast.”

“Very good, my lady,” she said, which was a good indication of how ill she was feeling.

I realized that I was not feeling at all queasy. I ate my breakfast with relish then went up on deck to explore. A few people were sitting on deck chairs with rugs over their knees. A steward was going around with a tray of hot consommé. A group of young men was bravely attempting a game of quoits. I recognized one of them as Tubby Halliday. He waved when he saw me.

“Come and join us,” he called. “It’s quite a challenge with the ship rolling around like billy-o.”

I hesitated but then decided why not. “All right.” I went over and was handed a quoit. The facts that I had never played the game before and couldn’t always control what my limbs did shouldn’t matter, should it? My first throw released from my hand at the wrong moment, resulting in a quoit that rolled along the deck and had to be chased down before it went over the side. My second went straight up in the air instead of toward the pin. “Whoops,” I said. The men were nice enough to put this down to the pitching of the ship. I managed to relax and soon the pitching and rolling was part of the fun. I even landed a quoit over the pin.

“Jolly good,” said a tall young man, clearly an American by the loud check of his jacket. “I’ll have to nab you as my partner in one of the deck tennis tournaments.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m not that good.”

“In case you haven’t noticed there aren’t too many women under forty on the ship,” he said with rather too much candor.

“Thank you. You make me feel so desirable,” I said, rather proud of finding a comeback for once.

He flushed. “Sorry, that wasn’t very diplomatic, was it, and my old man wants me to become an ambassador someday. I’m sure you’d be a delightful partner and you’ve got a good strong right arm. I’m Jerry by the way. Are you staying in town or are you heading out?”

“A few days in New York, I believe, and then we’re going across the country by train.”

“To California?”

“To Nevada, I think.”

“Interesting.” Tubby Halliday had moved closer to me. “The only reason anyone goes to Nevada is to get a divorce.”

“We might be looking at buying land,” I said, giving him a cold stare.

“No land worth buying in Nevada,” Tubby went on. “And I see that the famous Mrs. Simpson is on board. Rumor has it that she’s going home to Baltimore for that very reason.”

“Buying land?” I asked innocently.

He laughed. “Getting a divorce from Mr. Simpson.”

“Gee whiz. Then she does intend to marry the prince,” the young American said. “Wouldn’t that be a turnup for the books. Imagine a Yankee queen. What would you Limeys say about that?”

“It couldn’t happen,” I said. “The Prince of Wales wouldn’t be allowed to marry a divorced woman. When he’s king he’ll become head of the Church of England which does not accept divorce.”

“We’ll see,” the American said. “From what I’ve heard, she’s a lady who likes to get her own way.”

“Not against centuries of English tradition,” I said.

“There’s a way around anything,” the American said, taking an easy drag on his cigarette. “Go ahead. It’s your turn.”

I tossed the quoit down the deck. He was right, of course. I had thought that I would not be allowed to marry Darcy because he was a Roman Catholic and I was in the line of succession to the throne—albeit only thirty-fifth. But it had been pointed out to me that all I had to do was renounce my claim to the throne and I was free to marry whom I pleased. Since I wasn’t likely to be queen unless the Black Death swept through the country again, this would be an easy decision. We hadn’t announced our plans to marry yet, since neither of us had a penny to our names.

Tubby Halliday had moved closer to me. “So is your mother really going to get a divorce? Who is she actually married to?”

“It’s really none of your business, Mr. Halliday,” I said.

“Tubby, please. We’re all on first-name terms on a ship. I was just interested. She is a public figure, after all, and public figures are fair game, aren’t they?”

“Why this morbid interest in everyone else’s life, Mr. Halliday?” I asked. “It’s not quite done, is it?”

The young American chuckled and gave Tubby a shove. “Don’t you know—he’s a newspaper reporter for the
Daily Mail
. It’s his job to dig up scoops.”

I felt anger welling up inside me. I have been brought up to control my emotions (a lady is in control at all times; a lady never shows what she is feeling) but I blurted out, “You should be ashamed of yourself. Pretending to be chummy with me just so you can print horrid things in your newspaper about my mother and my family. You can count me out of your quoits and any other game you want to play.”

And I stalked off. I heard Tubby say to the American, “You’ve well and truly put your foot in it for me this time, old sport.”

“I think you did that pretty well yourself,” was the reply.

Thank heavens I hadn’t succumbed to his easy friendliness enough to tell him about Mummy’s Reno divorce trip. She’d never have forgiven me. I decided that she would be up by now and made my way to her stateroom. As I tapped on her door I thought I heard voices. I opened the door cautiously.

“Mummy, are you up?” I called.

“Come on in, darling,” Mummy called. “I’m not only up, I have visitors.”

I came into the room to see Cy Goldman and Stella Brightwell sitting on the sofa opposite my mother. The room was heavy with cigar smoke. Mummy was sitting up, fully dressed, face made up perfectly, looking very prim and proper, not sprawled across the armchair the way she usually sat.

“You remember our table companions from last night, Mr. Goldman and Miss Brightwell, don’t you, Georgie? It seems they have staterooms just down the hall from mine. I must say the accommodations are splendid on the ship, aren’t they?”

“Cy finds them quite cramped.” Stella laughed. “But then you should see the size of Alhambra Two.”

“Alhambra Two?”

Stella gave Cy Goldman a challenging look.

“She means the place I’m building above Malibu. Just because I’m incorporating parts of old Spanish buildings into it Stella has dubbed it Alhambra Two. Actually it doesn’t have a name yet.” He looked up at me and patted the sofa beside him. “You’re just the person we need, young lady. Take a seat. We’re trying to persuade your mother to be in our movie. But for some reason she’s the one person in the world who doesn’t want to be a movie star.”

“So silly, darling,” Mummy said. “What would Max think? What would anyone think? They’d say I was a has-been, trying to make a comeback.”

“On the contrary,” Stella said. “They’d be amazed that you still look so young and gorgeous.”

“Oh, don’t be silly.” Mummy laughed but I could tell she was flattered. Perhaps she was playing hard to get. “Besides, I have no time to be in Hollywood. This is only a short trip then I must return to dear Max in Germany. He hates it when I am away.”

“So where exactly are you going in the States?” Cy asked.

“Reno, if you must know,” Mummy said. “I have been tied to an annoying husband who doesn’t believe in divorce. But my current beau is insisting that we get married, and I’ve been told that a divorce can be arranged simply and easily in Reno.”

“Yes, but not overnight, honey,” Cy Goldman said. “Ask Stella. She can tell you. She went through it when she got rid of Freddie.”

“English husband, darling. Quite impossible. Drank like a fish and went after anything in skirts that didn’t play bagpipes.”

“So how long does it take, exactly?” Mummy asked.

“There’s a six-week residency requirement,” Stella said.

“Six weeks?” Mummy looked aghast. “I have to live in Nevada for six weeks? Why didn’t anyone tell me that?”

“There are ways around it,” Cy said. “Tell her, Stella.”

“Some people check into a resort and lounge in the sun and have a good time,” she said, “I did. It was bliss. Lovely swimming pool and gambling at night. But if you’re really against being stuck in the middle of nowhere you rent yourself a little house out in the boonies, make sure you’re seen around and then pay someone to take your place.”

“I can pay someone to take my place?”

“Sure you can. You let them know that because you’re a famous lady you’re steering clear of any bad publicity. You arrange to have food delivered, and ensure you are seen in the distance from time to time. Then you show up again when you go before the judge. They don’t ask too many questions in Reno. It’s a primary source of income for the state.”

Cy thumped one fist against the other. “And during those six weeks you make a picture with us. What could be simpler? We’ll put you up at the Beverly Hills Hotel. You’ll come out to my castle on the hill on weekends. You’ll have a ball. So will the young lady. She’ll meet movie stars instead of cowboys. Much more fun than dreary Nevada.”

Mummy was fiddling with her hair—a sure sign she was nervous. “Is there no way around this six week business?”

“Sure. You can go to Guam. I hear they’ll issue you with a divorce on the spot there.”

“Guam? Where is that?”

“On the other side of the Pacific Ocean,” Goldman said. “A long boat ride. Primitive. Grass huts. Mosquitoes. And no luxury liners like this. Tramp steamers all the way with an Oriental crew who drink.”

“No thank you,” Mummy said with a shudder.

“Or you could hop across the border to Mexico, but not all states would recognize a Mexican divorce.”

I could tell Mummy was weakening. “What part would I have to play in this picture? I won’t be anyone’s mother.”

“Honey, you’ll be a sexpot leading lady. A great foil for my darling Stella. You’re a true-blue British gal and a real actress and that’s what I need. Not some Hollywood type trying to play British.”

“And you said this was a picture about Mary Tudor and Prince Philip of Spain?” She sounded dubious. “Where do I come into it?”

“You’d be Mary Tudor, darling,” Stella said.

“And who would you be?”

“Her sister, Elizabeth. You know, the future Queen Elizabeth I. It’s going to be called
The Tudor Sisters,
or something like that, isn’t it, Cy?”

Mummy shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t quite see . . .”

“Simple, Claire, honey.” Cy Goldman rested his cigar on the ashtray and leaned toward her. “The story is all about romance and rivalry. Rivals for the same man, see.”

“Elizabeth and Mary? Which man?”

“Philip of Spain. It goes like this: Phil comes over to marry Mary, but he sees her little sister Elizabeth and falls in love with her instead. So Mary’s going to put Elizabeth in the Tower of London and have her head chopped off, but she meets Philip’s right-hand man, Don Alonso, and she makes a play for him to make Philip jealous but she falls for him. Then Philip finds out that his guy is fooling around with his new wife and they fight a duel and Don Alonso realizes he can’t kill the king of Spain so he dies valiantly. Philip is remorseful and goes back to his wife. Elizabeth is brokenhearted. Good story, huh?”

“Good story?” Mummy said, looking up at me. “It’s utter rubbish. First of all there was no romance between Mary and Philip. It was entirely political and I don’t think they even slept together, did they? And Elizabeth was much younger and I’m sure she didn’t come into the picture at all.”

Cy threw back his head and laughed—that great big bear laugh of his. “It’s a movie, Claire honey. It’s Hollywood, not a history lesson. When history is too dull, I say we spice it up. And Americans just love your British history with all those old queens and princesses.”

“Cy’s actually going to direct it himself. Think of that,” Stella said.

Cy beamed. “You won’t find a better director than me, Claire honey. It will be a tremendous hit. You’ll be a star. What do you say?”