The Cavendon Women (32 page)

From the first moment he had seen her he had wanted to touch her, to hold her like this. He was breathing in the fragrance of her skin, the lemony tang in her hair. She was wearing a scent that smelled of tuberoses, and roses would always bring the memory of this moment rushing back to him for the rest of his life.

It was obvious that there was a sexual attraction between them, but James already accepted he was involved on an emotional level. And he was certain she was. But it was enough for now to stand here together, enjoying this first moment of intimacy.

Dulcie unexpectedly leaned back, looking up at him. “I want you to kiss me, James. Will you?”

He did so. She kissed him back, and they went on kissing. Finally, he asked, “So, is it real?”

“Wonderfully real. The most real thing I've ever known.” She leaned into him once more, putting her arms around him, and let out a long sigh. “I've a confession to make.”

“Do you now? And what is it?”

“I came to the theater last night. I sat in the back and wallowed in you.”

He smiled against her hair. “How was I?”

“Wonderful.”

“You should have come backstage to see me.”

“I would never intrude on you; besides, it was Wednesday. You had a matinee. Two performances in one day is a lot.”

He was silent, his mind focused on her. She was amazing, and unusually wise for a young woman.

“How old are you?” he asked, finally getting the words out.

“Eighteen.”

Oh God, no, he thought. She's too young.

When he said nothing, she asked, “And how old are you then?”

“Thirty-three. And far too old for you.”

Stepping away, staring at him, biting her lip, and pushing down the laughter bubbling up, she said, “No, you're not, you're really not.”

“You want to laugh,” he said. “And I don't understand why my age amuses you. But go on, laugh. I don't mind.”

She did laugh, then calmed herself, and said, “My sister Diedre is thirty-three, and she's about to marry a man who's forty-eight. A man who has just made her pregnant. And Hugo is forty-five, fifteen years older than Daphne. They were married when she was seventeen, in fact. Younger than I am now.”

James was frowning. “How amazing; Hugo doesn't look forty-five.”

“No, he doesn't. Having a
young
wife keeps him young.”

“Touch
é
,” James said, and began to laugh. “You're a little minx, do you know that?”

“No, and I don't like names. Diedre used to call me a little madame. But I suppose you can call me a minx if you want to, because you're special.”

“But am I real?” he asked, laughter in his dark brown eyes. He was enjoying teasing her.

She merely nodded.

He sat down in the chair, and said, “So go on, tell me why the Ingham girls are obviously attracted to older men.”

“I have a theory. I think it's because we were brought up by a man. Our father. He took charge of us when we were little, long before his wife ran off with her lover. Papa spent all of his time with us, even when he was hard at it, running the estate. He was a tremendous influence on us, especially us girls. Papa was our moral compass. He taught us the difference between right and wrong, how to be grown-ups. He said we must stand tall, that we shouldn't weep over anything. He brought us up to be compassionate, kind, and well mannered.”

Shaking her head, she finished. “We got used to being with older people. I don't think we'd know what to say to a man of our own age.”

Hovering over him, she said softly, “Will you hold me again, quick, before they come downstairs with bucketsful of bags and other stuff to sell you? Dorothy Swann loves to make a sale.”

“I think you must be an original, Dulcie.” Chuckling, he stood up and pulled her into his arms. He kissed her on the mouth for quite a while.

They clung together. He stroked her hair, and as he did so he began to realize that the emptiness he frequently felt inside had fled. It was her presence in his life, he was aware of that. He had never felt like this before about any woman. This one's a heartbreaker, he thought. Better hang on to her. Make her mine. I can't let her escape.

Diedre had come into the shop quietly, and was standing staring at a man's broad back. She didn't know who he was, but she certainly knew it was her baby sister in the man's arms.

She cleared her throat.

The two of them drew apart. The man turned around, and smiled when he saw her.

Oh my God, Diedre thought, gaping. It's James Brentwood. Tall, dark, and handsome, and larger than life. And what was Dulcie doing in his arms?

Dulcie cried, “Oh hello, Diedre! This is my boyfriend, James Brentwood.”

“
Boyfriend,
” Diedre repeated, truly amazed by this incredible scene she had walked in on.

“Yes, boyfriend,” James repeated, understanding that his little minx needed backup.

Thrusting out her hand, Diedre said, “Hello, Mr. Brentwood. And welcome to this crazy family called Ingham.” Looking across at Dulcie, she went on in a loving tone, “Why didn't you tell me you had a boyfriend? And such a glamorous one. You can't hide
him
under a bushel, you know? And why would you want to?”

Dulcie and James started to laugh, and so did Diedre, and James said, “What have I unwittingly stumbled into? A lunatic asylum? I've never met anyone like you and your sister, Dulcie.”

“Oh I know, we're unique,” Dulcie replied, and looking at Diedre, she went on, “Will you get married on a Sunday, please?”

“As a matter of fact, we're planning to have the wedding on a Saturday, and a few days later we'll take the
Aquitania
to New York. But why are you asking me to have it on a Sunday?”

“Because I want James to come. And he won't be able to on a Saturday. He's working. Please make it Sunday. And I promise I will expunge that last bit of bad stuff about you that's still lying dormant in my mind.”

“Aha, still my little blackmailer, eh? I paid you three thousand pounds to wipe that slate in your head clean,” Diedre reminded her.

James was staring at Diedre, mystified by this extraordinary conversation.

Diedre noticed his expression, and said, “Pay no attention to this. We joke around a lot, James, and accuse each other of all sorts of things. We stir the pot.”

“So it seems,” he answered pithily, but nonetheless he was amused and entertained by all this banter between the sisters.

Diedre went to Dulcie and hugged her. “I'll change the day to Sunday so that your boyfriend can attend. To make up for the nasty way I treated you. If he wants to come, that is.”

“I want to,” James answered. “And thank you in advance, Diedre. You're very kind.”

And you're the most gorgeous thing on two male legs I've seen in years, Diedre thought, walking toward the staircase. Turning, she said, “I must go up for my fittings.”

“Thank you, Diedre, for being the best big sister in the world.”

Diedre smiled at her, her heart full of love for Dulcie, who had undoubtedly hit the jackpot snagging James Brentwood. Fancy that. Her little madame and the greatest actor in England.

 

Forty

James Brentwood hailed a cab on Piccadilly and went to the Old Vic, deciding he did not have time to go home. He had been at Cecily Swann's shop with Dulcie for almost two hours. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was three-thirty already. Anyway, he liked going to the theater early. It gave him time to relax, shed the world, get into his part.

Settling back against the seat, he found himself smiling. Dulcie had that effect on him. Aside from her stunning looks and warm personality, there was something refreshing and unspoiled about her. He enjoyed her colorful expressions, the way she used the language, her forthrightness and intelligence. She was clever. And her sister act with Diedre had been hilarious.

Quite aside from these characteristics, James was relieved that she was not in awe of him, or intimidated by his fame. Some women in the past had been, and it made him feel uncomfortable.

But then Dulcie Ingham knew exactly who she was, where she came from, and where she belonged in the world. She was the daughter of an earl, with a title in her own right, an aristocrat born and bred. And yet there was nothing snobbish or stuck-up about her, and her determination to work was admirable.

After paying off the taxi, James hurried down the alleyway to the stage door. Once inside the theater he ran into Sid in the corridor, and greeted him warmly.

His dresser, who was devoted to James, beamed when he saw him, and followed him into the dressing room.

“Blimey, you're really early today, Jamie.”

Taking off his jacket as he moved rapidly across the floor, and hanging it on the back of a chair, James explained, “I was out on an errand, finished early, and decided I might as well come in.”

“Best place to relax,” Sid said. “Fancy a Rosy Lee?”

“I'd love a sandwich, actually, and I won't say no to the tea, Sid. I haven't had lunch.”

“Comin' right up.” Sid headed for the door, then stopped abruptly. “The miss was 'ere last night.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I dint know. Just found out.”

James looked at him closely. “Who told you she was in the theater?”

“That usherette I know, Doris, who lives down Bow way. She recognized the miss.”

“Why on earth do you call her
the miss,
Sid? It sounds rather strange.”

“She ain't a missus.”

“That's true. And you probably didn't realize she has a title like her sister. Call her Lady Dulcie when she's here.”

“She's coming back then, is she?” Sid probed, always eager to know everything about James's private life. Always protective of him.

“I bloody well hope so!” James exclaimed, and winked at his dresser.

Laughing, Sid rushed out without another word. Staring after him, James shook his head, bemused, and sat down at the small desk. He rummaged around in the bottom drawer and found his treasured copy of
Henry V,
filled with all of his notations.

As he flicked through the pages of the play, he wondered if he should suggest it to Felix. Perhaps he ought to have a go at it again. After
Hamlet
closed, and after he'd had a rest. A long rest.

But Felix wouldn't agree, and neither would Constance, he was certain of that. They would want him to do something very different, take a break from Shakespeare. And they were usually right. They had guided his career for eighteen years, and he was thankful he had them.

The phone on the dressing table rang, and he jumped up, went to answer it. “It's Felix, Jamie.”

“Hello, Felix. Something wrong? You sound angry.”

“I'm not angry, just perturbed. Helen's brother, Andy Malone, called in for her. Apparently she's ill.”

“Oh bugger! What's wrong? Did he tell you?”

“He mumbled something about a female problem, and that she'd only be out a couple of days. Back on Monday. I thought you'd better know you've got the understudy tonight. But Pauline's rather good. Anyway, you always carry the play.”

“I like Pauline, and you're right, she is quite a good Ophelia. I'll manage. Sorry to hear about Helen. She has looked off it lately … sort of done in.”

“There's something troubling her, I think, and as soon as she's better I'll have a word with her, attempt to get to the bottom of it.”

“Better make it a gentle word,” James said.

“I will. I've been trying to get hold of you since one-thirty, Jamie, and you're in early today. Is everything all right with you?”

“Never felt better. And yes, I went out early. Around the time you were probably ringing my flat. I went to Cecily Swann's shop. To see Dulcie.”

There was a silence. A moment later, Felix asked, “Dulcie Ingham?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I've fallen for her, Felix. And rather heavily.”

“I'll be right over,” Felix exclaimed, and hung up without saying another word.

James looked at the receiver, laughed, and then put it back in the cradle.

Within a few minutes Sid came rushing into the dressing room carrying a large mug of tea and a brown paper bag. These he placed on the desk. “Here's yer mug of Rosy Lee, and I got yer favorite sandwich from the caf
é
. Fried egg on bread. Just like yer mum used ter make.”

“Thanks, Sid.”

“It's a good fing I'm 'ere ter look after yer,” Sid told him, opening the top drawer of the desk, taking out a plate and a white napkin.

James leaned back in the chair and said, “Along with three sisters, plus Constance. Let's not forget
that
team.”

Sid nodded. “Do yer fink I do? And
they'd
never bloody let me.” He put the brown bag on the plate. “Better eat. It's still warm. I spect yer know Helen's not coming in. Poorly, she is.” He always said “Helen” with great emphasis on the
aitch
, mostly because he usually dropped them.

“Felix told me while you were out getting the sandwich. I can't help thinking there's something really seriously wrong with her.” Standing, James walked over to the desk.

“She looks half dead these days,” Sid announced dourly.

“Please, Sid.”

“Oh, sorry. I fink it's man trouble, if yer get me drift.”

“I do.” James opened the brown paper bag and took out the sandwich, realizing how hungry he was when he bit into it.

“It's good, ain't it?” Sid asked, watching James munching on the sandwich.

James nodded.

Sid said, “I'll let yer eat,” and disappeared through the door.

*   *   *