The Girl from the Savoy (21 page)

Back in my room, I change out of my dance leotard and pull my travel bag from beneath my bed, taking out the scrapbook I've kept since I was a young girl.
Dolly's Dreams,
it says on the front. The pages crackle as I turn them. The paper is yellowed in places, but the images are no less stirring. I remember each one, each beautiful face, each glowing review. There are not many benefits to working in service to a wealthy family, but one is having access to discarded newspapers and magazines. Nobody knew that as I scrunched up pages to lay the fire or dry the insides of sodden riding boots, I tore out the parts I wanted to keep and put them in my pockets. In the privacy of my room I trimmed the edges, making them perfectly straight before sticking the cuttings into my scrapbook with a paste of flour and water. I remember the tingle of excitement as I looked at those images night after night, by candlelight or gaslight. What would it be like to dance on a West End stage? What would those dresses feel like against my skin? These were the images and words that kept my soul alive as I emptied chamber pots and drew water from the frozen pump on a frigid winter morning. These are the images and words that
light a fire in my belly now as I turn the pages, dozens and dozens of them, filled with my dreams.

I should probably give up. I should have given up many times before, but I can't. I keep coming back to these pages; to
Dolly's Dreams,
the naïve hopes of a young girl. I no longer chase a life onstage for myself. I chase it for a man called Teddy and a little boy called Edward, the boy I named in my mind, if not on paper, for the man who I had always imagined would be the father of my children. They are the reason I will keep going, keep trying, despite men like Peregrine Clements and Larry Snyder who dent my confidence and make me feel like dirt. I keep going for Teddy and Edward because if I stop now what on earth did I lose them for?

I turn the pages in the scrapbook until the cuttings end. The remaining pages are empty, a reminder that my dreams, and the column inches dedicated to theatrical reviews, were temporarily replaced with the stark realities of war.

As I close the book, my thoughts turn to my lost father and sisters, to Mam—alone in our little house in Mawdesley—distant fragments of my life, scattered across England. If only I could keep everything I have loved in one special place. If only I had a scrapbook to hold them all together.

If only.

The words that dreams are made of.

“If nothing else, it will give you the opportunity to tell him what dreadful manners he has.”

O
ver breakfast the next morning, O'Hara asks if she might have a quiet word.

My heart sinks. “What have I done now, miss?”

She looks at me with something like compassion. “You've done nothing wrong, Dorothy. For once, I have no reason to reprimand you.”

She takes my arm and guides me into a narrow linen cupboard in the corridor. In a hushed voice, she gives me the most extraordinary message. I am to meet a friend of the governor's at the Weeping Muse monument in the Embankment Gardens at two o'clock. The friend, she informs me, is a very well-known actress. Her name is Loretta May.

I
barely feel the cold as I rush along the cobbles toward the river and the Gardens as the church bells across the city chime the hour of two. I see her immediately, a tall slender woman standing in front of the Weeping Muse, the monument to the composer Arthur Sullivan.

I hang back for a moment and watch her. She leans forward
slightly, resting a hand against the back of the statue known as the weeping muse of music. I try to compose myself, but it is impossible. I am about to speak to Loretta May. I've seen almost every play she's been in. I've applauded her until my hands are sore. I've waited for a glimpse of her as she rushes from the stage door.

I move forward until I am right behind her. “Excuse me.”

She turns around. She is even more exquisite close up. Dark gold hair like syrup, perfectly styled. Heavy-lidded eyes, seductively penciled with dark kohl. Arched eyebrows. Crimson lips. She smells expensive and luxurious. She dabs her eyes with a lace handkerchief and places it in her pocket.

“Miss Lane?”

I nod. “Yes. They told me. At the hotel.”

“Thank you for coming.” She extends a willowy arm and holds out a gloved hand.

I shake it and hope I can bring myself to let go. “It's such an honor to meet you, Miss May. You're very huge. I'm a beautiful fan. I mean, you're very beautiful and I'm a huge fan.” I'm talking nonsense. My teeth chatter with cold and nerves.

She chuckles. It is a mesmerizing, seductive sound. “You're very kind to say so. I think!” A stiff breeze whips around us, ballooning out our coats and threatening to dislodge our hats. “Gosh, that wind. It brings tears to one's eyes,” she remarks, dabbing at her eyes again. “Let's walk. It's far too chilly to stand about.”

My steps fall in time with hers as we follow the path through the Gardens. I am walking beside Loretta May. Clover would die if she could see me.

“You must think this all terribly unconventional, Miss Lane.”

“Yes! I can't actually believe I'm here. With you!”

She smiles politely, but I sense she isn't interested in flattery today. I scold myself for being so giddy and excited.

“It's about my brother, you see.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes. I'm afraid he acted rather appallingly toward you.” She stops walking and looks at me. “My brother is Peregrine Clements. You might know him better as a ‘struggling musical composer.'” I am speechless. Loretta May is Perry Clements's sister. She starts to walk again. “Frightful business, abandoning you like that in the tearooms.”

“He told you?”

“He did. And I told
him
he was beastly to do such a thing. Someone with his upbringing should have better manners.”

I'm not sure what to say. “It was a bit of a shock. I thought we were getting on very well.”

“It was downright
rude
. But he's dreadfully sorry. Truly. He's really a very decent chap. I think he panicked.”

“Panicked?”

She turns to face me. “Look, it's rather difficult to explain, but the reason I wanted to meet you, Miss Lane, is to ask if you might give him a second chance.”

I'm not sure what I was expecting when O'Hara gave me the message about meeting Loretta May, but it certainly wasn't this. “But he left me a note. He said I wasn't what he was looking for.”

“Oh, never mind all that,” she says, waving a gloved hand dismissively as she walks on. “He's a damned nuisance. Doesn't know what's good for him. You have every right to be furious with him and I understand if you never want to see him again—I'd prefer not to see him myself sometimes, but sadly one cannot choose one's family.”

I
am
furious with him, but I haven't been able to stop thinking about him. Nor have I been able to throw his silly music in the fire as I'd promised myself I would.

Miss May sinks her chin into the fur collar of her nut-brown velvet coat and indicates that we should sit on a bench. “I'm intrigued, Miss Lane, as to why you replied to his notice in the first place. I presume there is more to this than the appeal of cherry cake and tea?
”

I push my hands deep into my coat pockets, my fingers curling around Edward's photograph. “You think it was silly of me, don't you. My friend Clover said the same.”

“I don't think it was silly of you at all. Actually, I think it was rather brave.”

I've never thought of myself as brave. I suppose I was, in a way.

I look at this woman, my idol, beside me and see a warmth in her piercing green eyes, a sense of someone other than the famous actress hidden within them. I have nothing to lose, so I tell her the truth. “I want more than a life as a maid, Miss May. I dream of dancing on the stage and when I saw the notice, I thought it might bring me a step closer to that dream. If only for an hour a week.” It all sounds so silly and unlikely as I say the words aloud.

She nods and places her hand on my lap. “I understand.” She looks at me,
really
looks at me as she takes my chin in her hand and angles my head gently toward the sky. “There's something about you, Miss Lane. I see it in your eyes. A sense of something more.” She pauses for a moment and lights a cigarette, offering me one. I decline. I'm trembling so much I'm sure I would drop it. “So, I'd like to propose one more meeting,” she says, “in my apartment to keep things on neutral territory. If Perry does anything to remotely offend or upset you, I promise we will never bother you again. I will be there to make you feel more comfortable. I'll skulk about behind the door and you can call for me at any moment and that will be the end of it.” She studies me, watching for a reaction. “You have Wednesday afternoons off, I believe?”

“Yes. And alternate Sundays.”

“Then come on Wednesday afternoon. I'm at Fifty-Four, Berkeley Square.” I think about Clover and our arrangement to go dancing at the Palais. She'll understand. “If nothing else, it will give you the opportunity to tell him what dreadful manners he has. I've always found something rather pleasing about having the last word in a disagreement. I'm offering you the chance to have yours.”

There is a wonderful sense of mischief in her eyes. Clearly, this is a woman who is used to getting what she wants. “How can I say no to Loretta May?”

“Oh, you'd be surprised, darling. Plenty of people do.” She stands up and we walk on. “You won't regret it, Miss Lane. I will make it my personal business to see that you don't.”

It is easy to see why so many men have thrown themselves at her. She really is the most beautiful, enchanting woman I've ever met.

As we approach the end of the path and the steps down to Embankment underground station, a few flakes of snow begin to fall. Miss May holds out her hand, letting the snowflakes settle onto her black glove.

“Did you know that every snowflake is unique, Miss Lane? That every one of these tiny fragile flakes is as individual as you and I. I find that remarkable. Just because we cannot see their beautiful little structures doesn't mean they're not there. They are all around us, and they are no less beautiful for our blindness.”

There is a lovely musicality to her voice. I could listen to her all day.

“Well, I mustn't keep you.” She offers her hand. “Thank you, Miss Lane. It has been a pleasure to meet you.” I stand mute before her, too starstruck to say anything in reply. “My brother will not let you down a second time. I promise. Oh, and I almost forgot.” She
hands me an envelope. “Two tickets to my latest show. Do come along. It's rather jolly.”

I can't take my eyes off her as she disappears beneath the archway and walks toward the river, shoulders back, head held high, neat dainty steps. I glance at my black shoes. How can I ever emulate such elegance when I'm cursed with such ugly footwear?

As I walk back through the Gardens, I pass the monument of the Weeping Muse. I must have walked past it a dozen times but have never stopped to look at it properly. I read the inscription above the bust of Arthur Sullivan.

Is life a boon? If so, it must befall that Death, whene'er he call, must call too soon.

I wonder what the words meant to Miss May. Whatever it was, they stay with me as I walk back to the hotel, pondering what has just happened.

I will go and see Perry again because Loretta May asked me to, and while I may very well end up wishing he would rot in hell, I already know that Loretta May I would follow all the way to the stars.

“But we all wrinkle and fade in time, Miss Lane.

Even the most beautiful bloom must eventually wither and die.”

W
ednesday cannot come quickly enough. I am restless and distracted, rushing my work and snapping at Sissy when she asks me what's wrong. I haven't told anyone about my disastrous meeting with Perry Clements, or my awful audition for Snyder. The shame of both lingers around me, affecting my mood so that I am irritable and short-tempered. And while Mildred acts as if we had never spoken about our shared experience at the Mothers' Hospital, she still watches me, judges me. The sight of her stirs uncomfortable memories that nag at my conscience, telling me I should have done more to find little Edward.

As soon as my morning rounds are finished, I change into the neatest dress I own and take the omnibus from the Strand along Haymarket and Piccadilly to Green Park, from where I walk up Bolton Street and along Curzon Street toward Berkeley Square. I know the area well, it being only a few streets away from the Archer residence on Grosvenor Square. I skirt around the square and run past the sweeping crescents of Mount Street and Carlos Place. I have a note in my pocket for Clover to explain why I can't meet her at the Palais today.

I'm relieved that it is a new maid who opens the door rather than anyone I know—too many explanations and too much conversation would be needed and I don't have time for either. The maid tells me Clover has already left for her afternoon off.

“Will you give her this when she gets back?” I hand her my letter. She takes it from me and puts it in her pocket. “You won't forget. It's important.”

She assures me she won't forget and slams the door in my face as her name is shouted down the passageway.

Rushing back to Berkeley Square, I arrive at number 54. The houses in the square are tall, terraced town houses; suites and apartments occupied by the very wealthy. I make my way down a short flight of steps to the deliveries door, ring the bell, and wait. I fidget and glance at the steps behind me. Should I forget all about Miss May and her brother and go dancing with Clover instead? I am here, and yet I am hesitant and unsure. I can't bear to be made to look a fool again. As I wrestle with myself to stay or leave, the door opens and a pleasant-looking woman invites me inside.

There's no going back now.

The woman tells me her name is Elsie and that she is the charwoman-cum-housekeeper-cum-secretary for Miss May. I follow her along a narrow passageway and up a short flight of steps into a wide hallway where we climb a sweeping staircase. My eyes are drawn to the many framed photographs and opening-night programs hung on the walls.
LORETTA MAY
. Her name in heavy typeface, her beautiful face captured by the photographers' flashbulbs. At the top of the staircase, I hear conversation in a large room to my left. Elsie asks me to wait a moment. I stand at the edge of the doorway, and peer inside.

The room is large and softly lit by the winter sunlight that streams through large sash windows on one side. Large bolts of
different-colored fabrics cover a long table in the center of the room. A tailor's dummy stands in front of the window, a woman kneeling in front of it tugs at pleats on an emerald-green skirt. She grips pins between her teeth, removing one to secure an adjustment before leaning back to inspect her work and adjusting some more. Miss May is bent over a large book of sketches on a side table. There is a pleasant feeling of industriousness to the room, but I can't see Mr. Clements anywhere. I presume he has had second thoughts. Again.

A maid arrives at the top of the stairs, brushing past me as I stand to one side. I watch as she hesitates, unable to see anywhere to place the silver tea tray she carries, every surface covered with fabric or books. How often I have been that hesitant girl, not wishing to vex Madam or her guests by setting a tray down in the wrong place. A maid can be given notice for such indiscretions.

Miss May waves a distracted hand toward the sideboard without looking up. “Over there will do, Beth. Push the things to one side.”

The maid does as instructed and sets the tray down. “Will that be all, miss?”

“Yes. For now. You may go.”

The girl walks from the room, staring at me as she passes. “Well, are you going in, then,” she whispers, “or are you going to stand there all day gathering dust?”

As the maid disappears down the stairs, Elsie invites me to step into the room. She smiles, pats me on the arm, and wishes me good luck as she closes the door behind her.

I stand awkwardly, just inside the door, until Miss May looks up from the sketch pad, a broad smile on her lips.

“Ah, Miss Lane. You came!” She takes my hands and squeezes them as if we were old friends. “I am
very
pleased to see you.” She motions toward a chaise. “Please. Take a seat.”

I move a few scraps of material and sit down, placing my purse on my lap. I feel horribly out of place and desperately underdressed. I cross my ankles and push my feet beneath the chaise so that my shabby shoes are out of sight.

Miss May pours tea from a silver pot. “Sadly it's a little too early for champagne, although all this costume planning is shockingly thirsty work, isn't it, Hettie?”

The woman kneeling beside the tailor's dummy looks up. “It is
never
too early for champagne, Miss May. Isn't that your golden rule?”

Loretta laughs as she hands me the tea. That same seductive laugh I heard in the Embankment Gardens and have heard so often in the theater. The laugh that has become something of a trademark and attracted so many admirers over the years. The laugh that catches in her throat and triggers a nasty fit of coughing, rendering her momentarily speechless. She sinks down into a chair and bends over, sipping from a glass of water until the coughing subsides and she recovers her breath. It isn't pleasant to watch.

The woman at the tailor's dummy fusses around her. “You really should see a doctor about that cough. It's definitely getting worse.”

Miss May brushes her concerns aside. “I must introduce you to my dressmaker, Miss Lane. Hettie Bennett. She worries terribly.”

I smile at the dressmaker. She smiles back. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Lane. And if
I
don't worry, I don't know who will.”

“Have you tried J. Collis Browne's?” I ask. “Or a dose of charcoal? My mam swears by it.”

Miss May stands up and stretches her long arms high toward the ceiling. She reminds me of a willow tree; strong and yet so fragile. “Ghastly stuff. All of it. It's just the fog irritating my chest. Winters bother me. I'll be perfectly fine by the spring.”

Hettie shakes her head and resumes her work as Miss May
walks over to me. “It is very good of you to come, Miss Lane. My brother should be here shortly, although he is notoriously late for everything, so I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you.”

“Does he know I'm here?”

“Absolutely not! You shall gain the upper hand with the element of surprise.”

I smile and take a sip of tea. Earl Grey. It is like drinking a bottle of perfume.

“You must excuse the chaos,” she continues, standing with her hands on her narrow hips and surveying the room. “We are costume planning for next season and for costume planning one must have chaos, it seems. Here, take a look.”

She passes me the sketchbook she was consulting a moment ago. I place my teacup on a side table and flick through the pages, admiring the dress designs. “These are wonderful. Whose designs are they?”

“Mostly Lucile. Some Chanel. A few Poiret.” She settles beside me to take a closer look. “This one is described as woven sunshine. It will be ever so light to wear, gold and silver embroidery over oyster-white satin. The material will shimmer beautifully under the stage lights. And look at this one. Lucile is known for her floral embellishments. Garlands of pink silk rosebuds. Aren't they darling?” She turns to another page. “And this one is so elegant. Mademoiselle Chanel. Look at the bias cut of the skirt. She has the fashion world quite in a frenzy trying to work out how she makes her lines so clean and fluid. So feminine. How anyone can say this makes a woman look like a boy has clearly taken too much absinthe.”

“They're very beautiful,” I say. “I can't imagine how lovely they must be to wear.”

She stands up and walks toward the window. “They are extraordinary to wear. The transformative power of a couture dress
cannot be understated. I remember the very first time I met Lucy Duff Gordon. Cockie arranged the appointment.”

“Cockie?”

“Sorry. Charles. Cochran. I knew Lucile had dressed Lily Elsie and other actresses. I was so excited I couldn't eat a thing for breakfast and was positively light-headed by the time I arrived at the shop in Hanover Square. She studied me so carefully as she made her sketches. Said I had beautiful lines and a talent for standing still. Cockie said I was better at standing still than I was at dancing! Awful old man! I was never the best dancer, but I had charisma. That's why Cockie encouraged me to the stage. ‘What you lack in rhythm, you make up for in charm,' he said. Cockie firmly believes that you can teach any girl to dance, but you cannot teach charisma.”

I can't take my eyes off her as she talks. She's like an angel standing in the sunlight. She certainly has charisma.

She turns and rests her hands on the windowsill behind her. “Everyone needs a little luck, Miss Lane, somebody to see that certain something within us. I was fortunate. I had access to the best of the best. Lucile taught me how to move across the stage, how to style my hair to show off my face, how to hold my neck at the correct angle so that the stage lights would catch the best of me. She said I had ‘lilies and roses' skin. I was a real beauty, you know!” She picks absentmindedly at a spray of roses in a vase on a pedestal beside her.

“You still are a beauty.”

She smiles. “You are very kind to say so. I suppose everyone is beautiful to someone. But we all wrinkle and fade in time, Miss Lane. Even the most beautiful bloom must eventually wither and die.” She sighs and sits back down beside me. “Do you dance, Miss Lane?”

“Yes. I love to dance. I go to the Palais in Hammersmith.”

“Have you ever had lessons?”

“No. I've learned from watching the likes of yourself and the instructors at the Palais.”

“Hmm.” I wonder what she's thinking behind those piercing green eyes, but a door closes somewhere beneath us and distracts her. “Aha. That will be Perry. Come along, Hettie. We must make ourselves scarce.”

“You're going?” I'm suddenly flustered and not sure I want to see Perry at all.

“Of course we're going! Think of this as a dress rehearsal. Best done behind closed doors, without an audience, so to speak. Do your best, Miss Lane. We'll be cheering you on from the wings.”

And with that, they leave the room and I am alone.

I hear voices downstairs, a door closing, footsteps coming up the stairs. What will I say to him?

He opens the door as I stand up. “I know, I know, I'm late again . . .” He falters as he sees me. “Miss Lane! But . . . how on earth?”

“Your sister. She came to see me.”

And there we are. Standing in an apartment in Mayfair, looking at each other, neither of us knowing what to say. I want to be angry with him. I
am
angry with him, but I'm also pleased to see him. I think of the times my sisters and I would squabble, determined to hate each other and yet forgetting our fight as soon as the sun came out and someone suggested a game of hopscotch.

He stands in the doorway, clutching his trilby across his chest. “I don't quite know what to say.”

He looks like a lost little boy and I feel confident beside his unease. “Have you ever considered a job as a magician?” I ask.

“A magician?”

“Yes. You do a very good disappearing act.” I drop my teaspoon purposefully against my saucer, wishing the clattering of metal against china was the clattering of my toe against his shins. He walks to the sideboard and pours tea.

“Ah. Yes. I see. Very good.” He runs his hands through his hair, pacing up and down the Oriental rug like a bobbin on a loom. “I owe you an apology, Miss Lane. A proper explanation. I didn't get a chance when we met outside the theater. Leaving you in the tearooms was a terrible thing to do and I'm dreadfully sorry.” He pauses and walks toward the dying fire. He throws several lumps of coal onto it, smothering the weak embers. I resist the urge to tell him he's doing it all wrong. “It was rude and ungentlemanly. I regretted it the moment I left, although I suppose that doesn't help much now.” He turns to me. “I am truly sorry. What else can I say?”

I try to look indifferent as I sip my tea. “I've known market porters show more respect.” He blushes and puts his hands in his trouser pockets. His hair sticks up at such peculiar angles that I would laugh in any other circumstances. “I suppose you're wondering why I'm here at all.”

He nods. “I know I certainly don't deserve you to be here. I really didn't think you would agree to come.”

“Everyone deserves a second chance, Mr. Clements; a chance to put right their mistakes. And if I
am
meant to be your muse or whatever you call it, it seems a shame to send me away.” I take a long sip of my tea. “Also, your sister is Loretta May, and
she
was very nice to me. She's the real reason I'm sitting here.”

He sits in the chair beside the fire and looks at me. That smile. Those eyes. In an instant, I'm back in the pouring rain on the day we bumped into each other, suspended in a moment I can't understand.

I walk over to the fire, take the poker from the companion set, and prod the lumps of coal to give the flames some air. They start to flicker immediately.

“Why didn't it do that for me?” he asks.