Duchess (18 page)

It wasn't quite the applause she'd hoped for, but it still warmed her as she sat in the pub, Rolfe's idea of a farewell party to his crew after this first leg of shooting.

It died too quickly as the crowd downed their toasts. From outside a patron entered, whisking in the frigid night air to the hot pub.

“You deserve it, darling,” Spenser said as the crew returned to their revelry. “You mesmerized all of us with those final scenes. You could make a chap believe you actually love him.” He winked and slid down beside her at the long, rough-hewn pub table, his arm staying on the back of her chair.

She tried to smile into those warm brown eyes that had inexplicably begun to follow her around the set three weeks ago, after her so-called brilliant scene, but the laughter from the table across the room caught her attention.

Rolfe, telling a story, gesturing with his hands. He wore his old flight jacket and a black sweater, which made him appear at once regal and daring, the exact mix, perhaps, of Jardin and Colin. Not once did his blue eyes glance her direction, however, and frankly, she wanted to hate him for the way he seemed unaffected by the carefully crafted emotion she layered into each scene.

She deserved the applause. His applause. Because she
had
been brilliant.

Now the cast of extras, some sitting on tables, holding pints or glasses of wine, listened to him tell his stories of flying over Germany, his face beautiful and sculpted in the lamplight of the room, every inch the heroic aviator.

She turned into Spenser's embrace. “You deserved just as much applause,” she said. Indeed, Spenser as Jardin matched her beat by beat, their scenes ringing with passion. She had cried real tears when he died in her arms, nearly wanted to take a pitchfork to Colin. So what that he hadn't killed Jardin, she let herself believe his guilt and put it all into the scene.

“Did you care nothing for my happiness?”

“He was using you—he didn't love you!”

She'd slapped him then, a doozy that wasn't stage acting, and for that she owed Hale an apology. But McDuff nearly cried with joy over the drama, and Hale congratulated her on her impromptu wallop, and they put it in the can.

Her gaze traveled over to the table with Rolfe again, how he laughed and now put his arm around Sophie, her makeup girl.

Like they might be friends, or even more.

She took a sip of her cranberry juice.

“I'm over here, doll.”

She made a face, turned back to Spenser. He was peering at her over the froth of his beer. “Sorry.”

“Excuse me for saying so, but you hardly look like a woman about to go on a month-long holiday to Belgium. Seems to me that the phrase
castle in the country
should have you at least mildly excited.”

“Castle?”

“You know, the duke's estate.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or doesn't that suit your fancy, now that you're a big star in Europe?”

“It's probably not a castle. And I'm not a big star anywhere, currently. Most of all, I'd rather be going home for Christmas, to Sammy and Irene. Rolfe practically ordered me to stay behind while the rest of the crew disbands. I'm not going to a castle; I'm being held prisoner.”

He smiled, just a little. “Shall I call you Rapunzel?”

“More like Beauty and the Beast.” She cast another glance at Rolfe.

“Really? The duke? He's hardly a beast.”

“Yeah, well, maybe not to you, but he's barely done anything but growl at me since he borrowed me from Palace Studios. Look at him over there, flirting with Sophie.”

“That's flirting? With Sophie? I don't think—”

She gave him a look. “Yes, flirting.”

He raised an eyebrow then took a draught of his pint. Around him, the pub crowd, mostly the crew and extras, danced and toasted the holiday. A band played in the corner, something festive that sounded decidedly Irish.

“I don't want to think about Rolfe.” She raised her juice. “To you and your stardom in Germany.”

His smile fell. “I'm not going back to Germany.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

“I'm not allowed to work in Germany anymore. Not for German directors, that is.”

She watched his hands. The way he drew his finger down the frosty glass. “Are you serious?”

He glanced at her. “I'm half Jewish. My grandfather was Jewish, although my grandmother was German, so I'm considered mixed blood. I'm not allowed to work in Germany anymore.”

“You're telling me the truth?”

His mouth pursed. “Indeed. It started back in '33 when Hitler's party took over, and it's gradually gotten worse. They wanted to separate Jews from the rest of the German population, but they couldn't figure out who to label as Jewish, so they come up with the Nuremberg Laws. Anyone with Jewish parents or grandparents were included.” He lifted a shoulder but looked away from her. “I was going to marry, but my fiancé was German, so they denied our permission to marry.”

She touched his arm. “I'm so sorry.”

He nodded, looked away from her. Shook his head. “Rolfe found out through a mutual friend that I needed to leave Germany, but they were watching Elise, and she didn't dare leave. Rolfe hired me for this film, got my visa, and hustled me out of the country.”

“And Elise?”

He turned back to her. His eyes glistened. “She has moved on to someone more…suitable. I hope to forget her in America.”

“That's where you're headed?”

“I have family in New York. And then to Hollywood.”

“I had no idea this was happening, Spenser.”

He took another sip. “It's getting worse. I hear the Nazis are eyeing Austria and Czechoslovakia and Denmark, even Poland.”

“What are you talking about? War?” She shook her head. “Not after the Great War. No one has forgotten the losses.”

“Indeed. Especially Germany.” He covered her hand, squeezed it. “You are an amazing woman, Roxy. Thank you for letting me fall in love with you.” He kissed her hand.

“You didn't fall in love with me, Spense,” she said.

He raised his gaze. “Didn't I?”

She drew in a breath, smiled, tried not to hear the voices at the next table trickle over to her. Or take her gaze from Spenser, but oh, see, what was Rolfe doing bringing Sophie to the dance floor, taking her into his arms?

“You know, he isn't smitten with her.”

She glanced at Spenser. “I don't care.”

“Really?”

“He's just so different from the man I knew in Hollywood. He's brooding and dark—”

“And maybe still grieving.”

She glanced at Spenser. “What?”

“His wife. She died about five years ago, right before Christmas, I believe.”

“Wife?”
Wife?

“You didn't know?”

“I—I—”

“How well do you know Rolfe Van Horne?”

“Clearly not well enough.” She finished her cranberry juice and debated something stronger. “When did he get married?”

“I suppose about nine months before the day his wife died.”

Rosie frowned.

“She died in childbirth.”

Oh. Her chest tightened, though, and she couldn't breathe.

That explained a lot, really. Why he didn't reach out to her, why he'd forgiven her. He had moved on, hadn't pined for her at all. Instead, he'd fallen in love with someone else—then lost her.

Probably he didn't have anything left to give of himself either.

She watched him on the dance floor, swinging Sophie in his arms. He didn't look like a man grieving. Then again, she didn't appear to be grieving either.

Perhaps they were both brilliant actors.

“Do you want to dance?” Spenser asked.

“Maybe you should take me home.”

“C'mon, Roxy, dance with me.” He got up, took her hand, gave it a tug. She relented and let Spenser pull her to the dance floor. The music turned slow, sultry. He nestled her close. “If you want, we can try and make him jealous,” Spenser said into her ear.

“What are you talking about?”

He grinned, gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You always put more passion into your scenes when Rolfe was on set.”

“I did not!”

“Shh. I'll keep your secret. Besides, you're not the only one in love with our producer.” He nodded toward Sophie.

The girl had her head against Rolfe's chest, her eyes closed as he now swayed her.

“I'm not in love with Rolfe Van Horne,” she said, looking away from Sophie.

He chuckled against her ear. “Please. I'm your costar. I know when you're acting.”

He held her as she tried to push away.

“Work with me, Roxy. Trust me.” He began to sway with the music, turning her, dipping her, then bringing her back close.

Out of her periphery, she saw Rolfe's gaze land on them. Then Spenser turned her away, putting her back to Rolfe.

“He's watching.”

She looked up at him, and Spenser smiled, winked.

Oh, he was a charmer. No wonder the audiences loved him. She smiled back.

“Want to try that again?” he whispered, his breath soft in her ear.

She giggled as she held on to his arms. “Yes, please.”

He dipped her again, this time curving his body over hers then landing a kiss, something soft and intimate, on her lips.

It shocked her, and she felt a blush heat her face.

When he pulled her up, his eyes were shining. “That's wasn't just for him.”

“You are a scamp,” she said, but she liked the warmth that curled through her at his flirting. Especially as she watched Rolfe take Sophie's hand and pull her off the dance floor.

“Are you ready to go home now?” Spenser said as the song ended.

“Yes.”

He retrieved her coat and slid it up over her shoulders. She didn't glance at the table as she left. Let Rolfe wax eloquent about his glory days. She'd heard it before.

Outside, a blanket of snow covered the thatch-roofed pub, the flakes drifting from the sky. The village lights glittered from the paned window of bungalows and storefronts, upon the evergreen-wrapped lampposts. The smell of roasting chestnuts seasoned the crisp air. Her breath spilled out, curling into the night, and she clutched her wool coat at her neck.

Spenser motioned for a driver, but she shook her head. “Let's walk.”

“Are you sure?”

“It's only a little ways.”

Her boots crunched in the snow, squeaking. Behind them, the raucous noise of the party spilled out of the pub, into the street as people left, laughing, some singing Irish pub tunes.

“The last time I remember walking in snow, it was in Chicago. I was pregnant with—” Oh. She glanced at Spenser, but he was staring at his feet making a trail in the snow. “I was just barely pregnant. And my husband, Guthrie, took me out to the White Sox Stadium where he played baseball, and we made snow angels.” Then he'd kissed her, and pressed his hand over her belly, closed his eyes, and prayed.

Or, she thought he'd prayed. She didn't want to ask, too afraid of praying with him, afraid she'd jinx it.

But she had jinxed it all the same.

After a moment of her silence, Spenser asked, “What happened to that life, Roxy? Your husband? Your child?”

She caught a snowflake on her glove. “He died. And she—she doesn't live with me.”

He walked quietly beside her. The snow floated from the sky, thick, heavy flakes.

“Since you're Jewish, do you believe in God?”

He chuckled into the night. “It's a requirement. You?”

“I used to believe.” She glanced at him. “Sometimes I want to.”

“And sometimes you're afraid that if you do, if you pray to God, He won't be there. He won't care, won't answer.”

She nodded. “And if He does, that His answer won't be what I want.”

He glanced at her, something of a wry smile on his face. “That's the problem. We ask for what we want, not what we need. And until we get that, we keep wanting.”

“Maybe I don't know what I need.”

He drew in a breath. Considered her for a long moment. “I think you do, Roxy. You just don't want to admit it.”

Then suddenly he reached out and took her hand.

“Why did you do that?” she asked softly.

He looked up at the snowflakes, let them fall, melt on his face, turning it shiny. “Because when it's slippery out, sometimes we just need someone to hang on to until we find our footing.”

She closed her hand around his as they walked into the chilly night.

Had Rosie listened to her mother fifteen years ago, this castle, Rolfe's château in the rolling, wooded countryside of Belgium, would have been her home. Had she surrendered her will and simply trusted. Had she let go of her dreams, she might have found them here.

But she had to face the truth. Rolfe Van Horne hadn't come to Hollywood haunting her door with his pining heart. He had no romantic interest in her, despite her attempts to stir the old spark between them.

In fact, Rolfe might be in love with Sophie, her makeup gal, despite what Spenser had said. Hadn't Sophie and Rolfe disappeared together the minute he'd deposited Rosie at his estate like annoying baggage?

Yes, facing the truth would help her stop watching for his return and help her focus on getting through this Christmas without Sammy and Irene.

She should have insisted on returning home for the season. But she could admit that she'd held out some flimsy misplaced hope that Rolfe might, once he got her alone, finally admit that he cared for her.

Rosie stood at the frost-stained window, watching the snow fall from the sky. It seemed it had snowed every day since her arrival two weeks ago, practically entombing her in Rolfe's massive home, just her and the chamber mice, because Rolfe had instantly vanished, leaving her with a revised script, dialogue notes from Nellie, and a skeleton house staff to attend her.

After sleeping for the first four days, she'd turned adventurous and begun to explore his estate. Located in the rolling countryside outside Liege, the Chateau de Van Horne seemed plucked right out of the seventeenth century, with a gatehouse that encircled the frozen manicured gardens, the circular drive, and two medieval towers to further imprison her. She found the entrance to one, stood looking up all three stories, listening to her voice echo in the silence.

At the grand two-story entrance, a carved balustrade led up to the second floor, curving around a brilliant chandelier, with teardrops of golden light that splashed upon the whitewashed walls, the golden lamps, and carved mirrors.

She counted twenty rooms in what seemed an endless labyrinth, and she hadn't even made it to the third floor, although she suspected this was where Rolfe stashed his five house servants: the housekeeper, her maid, the cook, the footman, and the butler.

She felt like she might have stepped back in time, to her mother's house on Fifth Avenue in New York, the feeling of prestige embedded in the shiny oak-paneled walls, the scent of lavender dusting oil.

As she wandered the halls, the staff was invisible and silent, yet somehow appeared magically at her first hint of need.

She'd forgotten the sense of being pampered,
that
she'd surrendered when she'd left her mother's house to run into the grasp of the theater.

Funny, but Rolfe never seemed like a man used to being pampered. On the contrary, he seemed more like a general, a man used to fighting for what he wanted.

The Chateau de Van Horne would certainly quarter an army. She creaked the doors open on what seemed over a dozen unused rooms. Grand, glorious chambers with Belgian tapestries of battle, or the Christ figure and His disciples, hanging on the walls. Tiled, unlit fireplaces, with frescoes of soldiers or women in repose hung over mantles, and oiled portraits—so many she'd lost count—of Van Horne ancestors.

She found Rolfe's likeness in a grandfather, dashing and robust, posing in his Belgian uniform, fringed epaulets crowning his shoulders, a rich golden sash across his chest. He stared at the artist with a lift to his chin, proud and untouchable.

Yes, she knew that posture from a Van Horne.

She counted four dining rooms, although three hosted petite tables that seated four or six. In one room, she sat so long at the barren table staring at the frescoes on the ceiling that her maid entered and asked if she would like a fire in the hearth.

No, but she would like to dine in the formal dining room at least once during her stay. The red brocade wallpaper, golden frescoed ceiling, and three crystal chandeliers bespoke grandeur, and she imagined throwing a party here, a grand Christmas ball, with a towering evergreen swagged with ribbon from the forests surrounding the estate. She'd light a blaze in the massive black marble fireplace and open the doors to the patio where the night sky could add its magic.

For that matter, she could probably hold a ball in the boudoir Rolfe assigned her. She didn't know whom it might have belonged to, perhaps one of the family's regal heiresses, but she felt it must have been someone who loved the morning light as it glided across the carpet, rich with rose reds and hyacinth blues, hints of buttercup yellow. On each wall, tapestries woven with patterns of green vines and roses cordoned off the chill, although her maid always kept the fire in the white marble hearth lit. The flames reflected off the enormous standing mirror that also captured the scrolled molding, the paneled ceiling. An acre-sized French white sleigh bed, covered in furs and lamb's wool blankets, persuaded her to curl in and stay forever.

Maybe not forever. Yet the quiet, the safety of the estate, had settled into her bones. For the first time in years, perhaps, she didn't care about the trades or the studio, or even the fact that Grayson Clarke's newest movie,
Mutiny
, might sweep the Academy Awards.

Maybe she did care a little. But next year,
Red Skies over Paris
would be in the lineup, she had no doubt.

She should probably use this time of quiet to rehearse, to find more tucked-away emotion for the next phase of filming. A woman desperate to restart her life, to do something of importance. She just might find a kinship in the role of Bridget.

Yes, she'd memorize her scenes under the comfort of a rabbit coverlet, the fire crackling, sipping tea, and she would refuse to miss Rolfe.

But she could hardly forget that she might be in the employ of a duke. For the first time, Rolfe's heritage had settled into her.

She realized all she'd surrendered by not trusting her mother.

But how was she to know that Duke Van Horne might turn out to be…

Dashing? No, aloof and frustrating.

And, even on Christmas Eve Day, absent.

She rose early, took her tea at the table in her room, and decided to venture into the village nearby, a smattering of buildings that, probably three hundred years ago, had been under the protection of the gentry, namely the Van Hornes.

She found a cloak in the closet, red, with a hood, and wrapped it around her, caught in the nostalgia of the attire.

“Would you prefer a ride, ma'am?” The butler materialized, a Mr. Yates, ready to assist her. He reminded her of Bennett, her stepfather, tall, reserved, handsome, a hint of age at his temples. He wore the butler's garb, a suit, tie, gloves. “Thank you, Mr. Yates. I think I will walk into the village.” She found a muff and fur-lined boots and was just stepping outside when she turned back to him.

“You and the staff must have family or someone to spend the day with.”

Mr. Yates simply stared at her, frowning. “No, ma'am. Mr. Van Horne is our family.”

“And he isn't here. So I'm giving you the day off.” She smiled, patted his arm. “Tell the rest of the staff they can take the rest of the day and tomorrow off.”

He blinked at her. Then, “Very good, ma'am. But should you need anything, please ring.”

“Merry Christmas,” she said as the giant oak door closed behind her. She didn't need Rolfe's hovering staff; she knew how to care of herself, thank you.

The chill didn't even touch her as she wandered out of the grounds and onto the snowy lane. Her feet crunched on the crisp layer, the sun radiant overhead, turning the landscape to frosting upon the hills. White pine and evergreen surrounded the estate, save for an occasional winter-stripped poplar lifting bare arms to the heavens.

She heard her thoughts, sorted them out as she walked.

Tonight, she'd order a call to Irene, just in time to wish them a Merry Christmas Eve. Hopefully Sammy would have received her chess kit with British toy soldiers she'd found in London en route to Manchester. They'd probably spend the day making cookies with Dorian then decorate the tree.

She'd tell them to look for Spenser—she'd given him her address, told him to look up Palace Studios when he arrived in Hollywood.

Sometimes she could still feel his hand holding hers as they walked home that starry night. He'd left her at her door with a kiss, not asking for more. She wasn't sure what she might have said if he had pressed, and that scared her just a little, her lingering loneliness despite the applause of the evening. She kept hearing it ring inside her and, added to Spenser's words, it became a mockery. “
We ask for what we want, not what we need. And until we get that, we keep wanting
.”

She didn't know what he meant about her knowing what she needed. It felt easier to let his tragedy and the horror of it incense her. Certainly he couldn't be right—the Jews couldn't be outlawed from working, from marrying? And Rolfe, did he know about these terrible laws?

And what about Hale? Was he Jewish? He didn't look Jewish, and he wasn't German as far as she knew. Dutch, she thought. She'd barely spoken to the man during the first weeks of shooting. But if Bridget was to fall in love with him, she should at least get to know him more, stir up a fondness for him.

Thankfully, she didn't have to try hard to see Hale's resemblance to Dashielle. And she'd fallen in love with him just fine. Twice, actually.

Unfortunately, just like Rolfe, Hale had vanished the moment they arrived on Belgian soil.

She supposed he had family in Europe.

She should be with her family.

Except, well—Irene and Sammy weren't exactly her family. Just…tenants, really.

Her family lived in Montana. And New York.

She closed her hands in her muff, wishing, today, she might have someone to hold on to, refusing to think what Christmas might be like with a child—her child. The sparkle of delight in her daughter's eyes, the laughter of surprise.

She probably should have sent a gift to Montana, but it felt like too little, too late. And who, really, would Lilly say it was from? It would only confuse Coco and start a conversation that might be better unspoken.

Not unlike the story of Rolfe and his bride. Spenser's words nagged at her, along with the questions. If Rolfe had married six years ago, then it would have been not too long after he'd left her, shortly after Dash's death. No wonder the man didn't want to be at home during the holidays. What painful memories might Chateau de Van Horne hold? What grief?

Apparently no one could go home this season.

She had attempted to find a photograph or an oil painting of Rolfe and his beloved bride, but no trace of her adorned the walls, the bureaus. Whoever she was, she'd died without a replica of her in the family history.

From the village, coal smoke curled up from the houses that clustered along the road, most with snow piled upon their thatched roofs, the plaster siding. The butcher, laundry, bottle shop, and constabulary sat closed, the wind nudging the signs hanging over their doors. Only the grocery and bakery appeared open, cheery wreaths hanging on their doors. She entered to the smell of bread baking in the stone oven, and her mouth nearly dripped with longing. In the case, fresh-baked cherry scones, popovers, and frosted Christmas bread, round loaves with candies pressed into the crust, looked scrumptious enough to devour right on the stoop of the storefront. A plump blond woman in her mid-fifties looked up from behind the counter where she was pulling out the Christmas bread. She set the loaf on a wooden board then wiped her hands with her apron and addressed her in French. “Can I help you?”

Rosie resurrected her rusty French. “I'm—I'll take some of that Christmas bread.”

The baker gave her a sad smile. “Oh, I'm sorry. Those are all spoken for. I'm wrapping them up now. But we have scones left.”

“Oh, I really wanted the bread.”

The woman shook her head. “It's been purchased, earlier this morning. Perhaps a popover?”

But the bread… “Fine. The scones will do. I'll take…two. Two would be perfect.” She wasn't sure why she needed two, but maybe she'd save one for tomorrow's breakfast. She hoped the cook had set aside a goose or perhaps a mutton for tomorrow's dinner, although really, why go to all that fuss for her? She didn't need more than toast and tea. After all, she had no one to celebrate with.

“Very good.” The baker wrapped up the scones and handed her a paper bag. “Merry Christmas.”

Rosie nodded, opened the bag to inhale the fragrance of the scones as she exited. Perhaps she could find some chocolate, melt it, and make one of her mother's favorite indulgences.

Maybe she'd call her mother also, and Finn. Listen to his voice telling her of the ice-skaters at the rink in Central Park, or the greenery in Chronicle Square. She would allow herself to miss New York City, just a little.

She stopped at the grocery and found a bar of chocolate, a bottle of milk, and considered the goose hanging in the window, but she hadn't a clue how to prepare it. Her years as Guthrie's wife demanded she learn how to cook a chicken, but a goose might be above her abilities.

And to think last Christmas Day, she'd spent it at a party in Fletcher's home, a Palace Studios soirée that made the trades.

Rolfe had better know what he was doing, or this might be the first of many lonely Christmases.

The sun had crested, already heading toward the west as she turned to home. The castle loomed foreboding in the shadows of the late afternoon. Hopefully, her maid had stirred the fire in her room—except…perhaps she'd been rash to let them go.

Rosie entered the house through the side door, off the carriage house entrance, and worked her way into the kitchen on the first floor. In her mother's house in New York, the kitchen had been in the basement, where the smells couldn't invade the house. But this kitchen was located in a chamber just off the first floor, with stairs to the wine cellar.