Duchess (27 page)

Even that of her own making.

“Who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies…”

She opened her eyes, breathed in the autumn air. Lovingkindness. She longed to believe that. Held on to it.

Even in the stillness of her house, her life.

Help me be meek, Lord. Help me trust You for my destiny
.

She made a habit of dressing, taking her breakfast of toast and a bowl of strawberries, and then heading down to the studio.

Rooney had moved out of her office, leaving behind curls of dust and a stack of old scripts. She decided to read them through, just in case he'd missed something. She read production reports and budgets and listened to the screenwriters, the Epstein brothers, down the hall argue.

She took lunch in the cafeteria and talked with the new faces—Carol Lombard, who was working on a Selznick film, one of their independent producers who rented out the studios. And Virginia Bruce, starring opposite Fredric March, who'd helped bring in an Academy Award for
A Star Is Born
. They'd just wrapped up the film, were starting promotions, and poor Virginia spent nearly every day with the photographers, staging her media shots.

Rosie just hoped her blond locks didn't fall out under all that bleaching and lights.

Then there was little Andrea Leeds, working on a musical in Stage Two. Pretty and young, she had so much hope in her eyes, Rosie couldn't bear to do anything but help coach her on her lines. Especially when she learned the girl hailed from Montana.

Rosie imagined that she might be coaching her own daughter, Coco.

She spent the afternoon reading the newspapers. Hearst had limited reports on the headlines in Europe, but even the scant news she found chilled her.

The Germans had talked the French and the British into letting them take over a portion of Czechoslovakia called Sudentenland in something called the Munich Pact, agreeing that if they were allowed to invade, they'd stop the advancement of the German armies into Europe. The Nazis had invaded Sudentenland the next day, and were now poised to invade the rest of Czechoslovakia.

She couldn't help but remember Hale's words. “
The Germans will stop at nothing to make the world repay their defeat
.”

Including Belgium.

She'd finally received a letter from Sophie, who said that Rolfe spent most of his time in Austria.

Rosie feared what he might be doing there.

But he'd sent her home.

He didn't need her.

And, despite Spenser's words, Rolfe had never told her he loved her. Not, at least, in so many words.

Fletcher knocked on her door as she was gathering her things. “I put a new script on your desk,” he said. “
The Four Feathers
.”

He smiled, and she saw concession in it. “Thanks, Fletcher.”

She waved to Clive, waiting at reception to ferry someone home.

“I took the liberty of washing the Rolls for you, Miss Price,” he said. Oh, the boy wanted to be discovered. She'd try and find him a role in something. Maybe the
Feathers
movie.

“Thank you, Clive.”

The security guard waved to her as she left. She found a smile for him.

Perhaps she might find a life here. Not stardom, but something of peace.

She parked in her circle drive and entered her house.

The scent of
La Castillere
met her, and immediately she knew. “Mother?”

She shut the door behind her. “Are you here?”

“In here, darling.”

Why the sight of her mother, Jinx Worth, New York socialite lounging on one of her white davenports, dressed in her pearls, a corset, and reading the paper, didn't surprise her told Rosie that she'd expected this visit.

Or rather, had longed for it. “What's the occasion?” Rosie kissed her mother on the cheek, crouched before her. The woman had aged, but not so much that her fifty-plus years stole her beauty. Her dark hair streaked with white, added a pearly tone to her radiance, and her dark eyes missed nothing, sharp as ever. She'd put on weight, but held it in with the corset she would probably never discard.

“I need an occasion to visit my only daughter?”

Rosie slid onto the sofa. “When did you arrive?”

“Earlier. We took an airplane.” A smile touched her lips.

“Can I get you something to eat?”

“Oh, we'll wait for the boys.”

“Bennett is here?”

“And Finn, of course. He was simply dying to see Hollywood. Bennett has him out driving. Your uncle Oliver has friends in the area and they loaned us a vehicle.”

“And why aren't you driving?” Her mother had been one of the first of the Newport society to take up the hobby.

“Perhaps I will, later,” Jinx said, winking. “But first, I want to know why you're not in Europe with Rolfe Van Horne.”

Rosie stilled then realized her mouth hung open. She closed it. “How did you know about Rolfe?”

Jinx took her hand. “If you'll remember, I was the one who tried to get you to marry him, once upon a time in France.”

Rosie made a face. “I'm sorry, Mother. I should have listened to you.”

Jinx raised an eyebrow. “Then, you care for him?”

Did she care for him? Did it count that she couldn't disentangle him from her thoughts, that every night he visited her in her dreams? That when she read the paper, she pressed her hands to her eyes, praying?

“Oh my,” Jinx said. “You're in love with him.”

“How—”

“Because I know that look. If you would have asked me how I felt about Bennett, even when married to your father, I would have given you such a look.”

Her mother had married the wrong Worth brother. She'd told Rosie that years later, told her how she stole Foster, the older Worth brother from her sister, Esme, and how it wrought her nothing but heartache. How she'd fallen for his brother, Bennett, whom she was assigned to marry off one summer in Newport. How, one drunken night, she'd slept with him, and passed off his child as Foster's as a way to hide her shame and secure her life.

A life she'd despised when she realized she'd married a violent and cruel man.

“If I could, I'd return to that moment at the pier when I saw Bennett boarding his ship for France, and I would have run with abandon into his arms and never looked back.”

“Mother!”

“I'm just saying, what are you doing here, when Rolfe is in Europe?”

“You still haven't told me how you know.”

Jinx gave her a look. “I read the papers. And your uncle Oliver has a paper in France, you know. I am not illiterate in either language.”

“They posted gossip about Rolfe and me?”

“He is a duke. And you're a movie star. What did you think, that your romance would go unnoticed by the press?”

Rosie pressed her hand to her mouth. Maybe Rolfe had been using her, had been building up a decoy.

Except, it hadn't felt that way. And of course they'd been noticed. They'd attended the opera in Vienna, went skiing in Salzburg. Hadn't exactly hidden their acquaintance.

Her mother stared at her. “Well?”

“Must I spell it out for you? Rolfe didn't want me. He sent me home.”

“Pshaw. Of course he wanted you. Look at you. You're beautiful.”

“
How many times do I have to tell you you're beautiful before you believe it?
”

His voice filled her ears. She shook it away.

“And he came all the way to Hollywood to ask you to be in his movie. That should matter.”

“He was just using me as a decoy—”

Oops. She didn't mean to let that out.

Jinx raised an eyebrow.

“He was smuggling Jews out of the countries we filmed in. Ahead of the Nazis. They're doing something terrible to them in Europe, and Rolfe was trying to help. He used our film as a way to help them escape.”

“You helped him?”

“I didn't realize it. But yes. Which meant he was using me.”

“Or trusting you. It seems that he picked you because he knew he could count on you. Imagine if he'd asked Joan Crawford.”

Jinx smiled.

Rosie couldn't help but smile back.

“All I know is that most people only get one chance at love, darling. You've gotten two.”

Two. Guthrie and—and Rolfe. But she was trying to be meek. And unless God gave her a nudge—no, more of a full-out shove toward Europe, she couldn't go running back to Rolfe.

Because he didn't need her.

She heard the door open in the hallway, the laughter of male voices.

“We're in here,” Jinx said.

Rosie got up, ready to greet them.

Finn appeared, twenty-one and handsome and suddenly everything inside her froze. Simply stopped even as he came down the steps and swept her into an embrace. “Hello, sis,” he said.

His voice. His wide shoulders, his tousled blond hair, his blue eyes.

Everything about him was an exact replica of the Jack she remembered. She stepped away from him, rattled.

She looked at her mother but Jinx had turned, reaching out for Bennett.

He'd aged too, but his hair was still the blond she remembered, albeit thinner. He took Jinx's hand. “Good to see you, Rosie.”

The voice. The build. She looked from Bennett to Finn, and back.

The Jack he'd become.

Sank down onto the davenport, her hand pressed to her chest.

“What's the matter with you, Rosie? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

She had. In the form of Nazi Gestapo Commander Otto Staffen.

The hooded train station of Vienna, with the arching girders canopying the twin tracks, cut crisscrossed shadows across the platform. Rosie wrapped her wool jacket around her, anticipating the dank chill of the foggy morning.

Perhaps even the frosty greeting she'd receive from Rolfe, once he discovered she'd returned to Vienna.

But not for him. Or, not
only
for him.

For herself. And her mother. And Bennett and Finn.

For hope, which, after twenty years, still refused to die.

The train coughed, and stilled, jolting to its final stop. Beyond the girders, the sky hung low, gray, void of cheer. She searched for Sophie one last time then gathered up her case and headed out of her compartment, joining the other passengers.

Rosie had taken little for her voyage, but she'd still require help from the porters with her luggage. She had no illusions that Rolfe would send a welcoming party. If Sophie had even told him Rosie was returning to Vienna.

Rosie stepped off the train onto the cement platform and stood there a moment, again searching. The air smelled of smoke and creosote, nothing of the grandeur of her previous stay, almost a year ago. The Nazi flag draped over the arched top of every entrance, a bloodred stamp with a spider in the center. Like bugs, the Nazis infested the city—at least that's the way Sophie described it in her letters—and already Rosie stifled a shiver.

What she knew about Hitler reminded her of Cesar Napoli, the mobster who'd once tried to own her in New York, a man who'd murdered her first husband, Guthrie.

For that reason alone, she could hate them—thugs, really. And she would plead with Rolfe to see them for the danger they were. To come back to America with her.

She'd even propose, if she had to. Lay her heart out there, even if he couldn't give her his back.

“Roxy! Over here!”

She turned to the voice and found Sophie weaving through the crowd. She wore a cloche hat, a plain brown coat, leather gloves, and threw her arms around Rosie's neck, holding her tight. “I can't believe you came.”

“Me either.”

The male voice wasn't who she'd expected, but it still filled her up with warmth. “Hale.”

He swept her into his arms, kissed her cheek.

“What are you doing here?”

He put her away, glanced at Sophie, then, “I'm working with Rolfe.”

Oh. She saw the flash of meaning in his eyes. Her smile faded. “How is it going?”

He picked up her satchel. “Do you have other bags?”

She nodded.

“I'll fetch them. We brought a car—meet me there.” He glanced again at Sophie. A chill shivered through Rosie as he turned away.

“What's wrong?”

Sophie slid her arm through Rosie's. “Your timing is…unfortunate. Last night a Jewish boy from Poland shot and killed a German diplomat in his Parisian offices. It's sparked a retaliation from the Nazis.”

“Here? In Vienna?”

“Yes. And I fear other places. Especially Germany.”

They exited the platform and strode through the station. She paused under the Corinthian columns of the grand station in silence, staring at the cityscape.

Black smoke roiled into the sky from at least two locations, and sirens whined in the distance. The faint roar of militant crowds, of glass shattering, the shrill of distant screams rent the morning. Men and women refugees with golden stars pinned to their jackets rushed past with suitcases, gripping the whitened hands of their children, nearly dragging them along. An elderly woman bumped into her, slamming Rosie off balance.

She looked at her, a cry of pain on her lips, but the fear on the woman's face turned her silent.

Rosie found her hand tight in Sophie's. “Where's the car?”

Sophie led her around the building, to where the car, a Rolls sedan, sat at the curb. “It's Rolfe's.”

“Does he know I'm here?”

Sophie shook her head.

“What's happening, Sophie? Why is Hale here?”

“He's been working on publicity for the film, planning the premiere. It is slated to be shown later this month.”

Rosie looked at her, nonplussed. “Rolfe's still planning on promoting the movie?”

“Of course. How do you think he plans to keep working in Austria?”

“But certainly, the Germans have screened it—”

Sophie frowned. “You didn't hear, then. We had to edit the ending. The director of cultural affairs said that he wanted a more benevolent ending. Hale filmed a final scene where he appeared at German headquarters, confirming that he'd been a German officer all along. The Germans thought it showed their cunning. They feel it is a reminder to the Austrian people that they are watching them, even if they don't suspect it.”

“Of course.” Rosie tried not to let the news skewer her.

Sophie lowered he voice. “Of course, this is simply the Austrian version. He has the original ready for distribution in America, London, and Paris. And in the meantime, he will do what he must to assist the Jews escaping from the city. There are close to forty people hiding in homes here, seventeen at his apartment on the north side of the city. Jews forced from their homes and businesses, denied visas to Poland or France. Things are getting desperate, Roxy. Men arrested or beaten when they don't surrender their property. Schools and synagogues closed. Young men and women disappearing. Rolfe is planning on using the movie across Austria to distract officials, move Jews into France and then Israel.”

“How?”

“I don't know, exactly. I do know there is a German he is working with, someone embedded in the Nazi Gestapo. The German has men sympathetic to the Jewish plight, soldiers willing to look the other way at the train station, even at the borders.”

Otto. Her brother.

Maybe.

How she hoped, no, prayed, with every fabric of her strength that Otto was indeed Jack Worth, lost in the Great War.

Despite his German accent, his history as a German war hero. Despite the fact he might be the leader of the thugs hunting down the Jews.

Maybe he was every bit the actor she was.

She'd held on to that hope for the past month, for the three weeks her mother, Finn, and Bennett toured Los Angeles, for the week that she packed her bags and traveled with them to New York City on the train, thanks to her mother's fear of repeating her TWA experience. It only grew stronger over the few days it took to arrange passage on an Atlantic liner to Paris, the eight days on the ocean, and then the overnight train ride to Vienna.

Now, she clutched that hope as the city burned around her, the stench of rubber and oil poisoning the air. A German transport pulled up and soldiers spilled out of it, invading the train station, weapons slung over their shoulders.

Hale pushed through the throng like a man drowning, gripping her suitcase, her satchel. He moved quickly, his long legs striding up to the vehicle. “They're already arresting citizens trying to flee.”

“You mean Jews trying to flee.”

He shot her a look, his mouth a grim line. He opened the trunk and maneuvered the cases inside.

“I expected more baggage from a movie star,” he said, apparently a sore attempt at a joke as he opened the door to the backseat.

“I'm not a movie star anymore,” she said as she climbed in. “And right now I'm wondering how I can be of any use at all.”

He shut the door, took the driver's seat as Sophie sat in the front. “Rolfe
is
going to lose his mind when he finds out you're here.”

“Just drive.”

They pulled out of the
Südbahnhof
toward the center of the city. The spires of St. Stephan's Cathedral rose like a spear above the skyline, parting the grimy smoke. In the distance, she could make out the glorious outline of the opera house, where Rolfe had finally taken her in his arms.

A haze hung over the city, however, the streets clogging with pedestrians, soldiers, crowds hunkered around vandals smashing storefronts. Glass splattered into the buildings, across the sidewalks, into the streets, jagged droplets. She saw an elderly man in an overcoat, his beard long and gray, armed with paint and a brush scribing J
UDEN
on the door of a building.

Their vehicle slowed as the crowds bumped it. One man slammed his hand into her window and she let out an involuntary scream.

Sophie slipped her hand over the seat to take hers.

More soldiers, their armbands designating their allegiance to the Nazi party, pushed groups of young men into a wagon, beating them with clubs. She turned away at the sight of a mob surrounding an angry teenager.

“We should stop!”

“We'll get killed,” Hale snapped. “Don't look.”

But how could she not look? Fire licked out of an open window of an ornate synagogue, flames breaking through the round window etched with the Star of David. A line of armed soldiers in black jodhpurs, shiny black boots, pressed ties, and military caps, held back the crowd—firefighters and onlookers watching in rapt horror. A group of rabbis knelt before the building, pistols aimed at their backs. A cadre of young men had picked up bricks, throwing them through the windows.

“Why are people doing this?”

“Anger? The Nazi propaganda has made them believe it's the Jews responsible for the economic trials of the past years. And…hatred. Evil thrives where good men do nothing,” Hale said.

Down the street, a mob had destroyed the front window of a grocer, now tossed his goods into the street, canned vegetables, meats, oranges, grapefruit. The car drove through the debris, smashing the fruit into the cobblestones.

Sophie squeezed her hand. “We'll find Rolfe and leave. Immediately.”

Please, God, protect him
. She could taste her desperation, sour and acrid, as she mouthed the prayer.

She caught sight of a young woman pushing a pram down the street and her breath left her as a trio of teenage men turned, and began to run after the woman.

“Stop the car.”

The boys had caught up, grabbed the back of the woman's coat. She stumbled, slapped at them, screaming.

“Stop, Hale!”

“No!”

They pushed the woman up against the building. She kicked out at them, and one of bullies slapped her.

Another turned to the pram.

Rosie grabbed his shoulder, shook Hale. “Stop right now!” Then she reached for the door handle.

Hale slammed on the brakes and she nearly hurtled out of the car. “Stop!”

Her voice—in English, stunned them. They turned toward her, briefly silenced. Hale, God bless him, leapt from the car, came at them with enough menace for them to scatter.

She was already at the pram, pulling the child—a baby girl judging from the pink knitted cap—free from the blanket. She clutched the wailing child to her chest.

“Get into the car,” she ordered the mother.

She needed no translation. The woman fled to the car without a word. Rosie shoved the screaming baby into her arms and climbed in beside her.

She wore a yellow star on her coat, panic in her eyes.

“You can trust us,” she said in English, and Sophie translated.

“But first, let's get that heinous star off you.” She reached up to tear it from the jacket, but Sophie caught her arm.

“It's forbidden,” she said. “She could be arrested and executed for removing it.”

Rosie lowered her hand. The woman closed her eyes, drew her screaming child close.

“Hurry, Hale,” Rosie said.

They cut through alleyways and side roads, weaving through the raucous city to the north side. They drove past the university steps, where soldiers barred the doors, lining up across the steps.

“They won't let Jews attend class,” Hale said.

Next to her, the woman watched, tears trailing down her cheeks. She said something in German and Sophie translated. “Her brother attends school there.”

Hale's hands whitened on the steering wheel. They drove in silence past the university, finally leaving the center for the suburban area, where apartment houses lined tree-anchored streets. Even here, the Nazis invaded, and she watched as a family stood on the sidewalk while soldiers tossed clothing out of windows, furniture onto the street.

She found her hand clutched in the woman's.

“Ava,” she whispered.

“Rosie.”

Another German transport thundered by, passing them, soldiers hunkered down in the back. They glared down at her car, and she had the urge to press her hand over the star, hide it.

Fear took control of her hands, turned them slippery.

She smelled the acrid smoke even as they came upon the crowd, men and women in the street, some of them in their housecoats, others in overcoats and slippers, as if they'd been pulled from their beds to watch as the building across the street blazed.

She followed their gaze to a three-story apartment house surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, faded, trampled chrysanthemums at the base of the columns and a cobbled drive. Fire crashed out of the top windows, the lower ones thick with belching smoke.

A stack of fine art leaned against a transport truck near the scene, armed soldiers protected it from looters. Or, perhaps, from the rightful owners.

“Oh no,” Hale said, and she stiffened. He stopped the car. “Stay here.”

“Why.” She leaned forward, but even Sophie got out, her hand cupped over her mouth.

No.

Rosie shucked off her coat and handed it to Ava. “Put this on.” She got out and shut the door. The heat bled into the morning, and she heard the screams, the murmurs of horror as more glass exploded out, spraying the onlookers, who moved back, away from the onslaught of the flames.

Hale forged ahead searching the crowd. She sidled in behind him, grabbed the back of his jacket. He looked down at her, eyes wide. “Not a word,” he said softly then gestured ahead.