Duchess (25 page)

“I arrived a day early to port and decided to continue on to Los Angeles without visiting my family.” She stepped inside shedding her gloves, her hat. Louise took them both and gestured to Clive to set her bag in the foyer.

“Your luggage hasn't yet arrived from the airport,” she said, casting a look at Clive.

“I sent a truck from the studio to retrieve it,” he said.

“Very good, Clive. Thank you.” Rosie said. A nice boy—he reminded her of Finn with his manners.

“The studio told me that Irene is on leave?” She unpinned her hat, set it on the bureau, followed with her hair. It fell in a long wave to her shoulders. “Is she here?”

She walked down the hall. “Sammy?”

“They're not here, ma'am.”

She stared at her quiet, white living room, swallowed back the taste of her disappointment. “Where are they?” She picked up a recent photograph of Sammy and his mother, taken in the grass in the backyard.

“Ohio. Visiting her parents.”

She glanced at Louise. “But Irene never accompanies him to Ohio.”

“Myrna is no longer with us. And, Irene took her beau with her. I think she's hoping to make amends should she finally decide to say yes to a proposal.”

Rosie pulled off her shoes, handed them to Louise. “A proposal? Is it that serious?”

Louise gathered her shoes to her chest. “I don't ask, ma'am. But I suspect it might be.”

Well, she should have expected it. Irene was beautiful and smart and wealthy.

“Who is he?” She should wander to the kitchen, find something to eat.

“An actor, I believe.”

Of course he was. She smiled. “I don't think we need to worry. Irene is smarter than that. I'm going to retire to my room. Can you ask Cook to bring me something in the way of a sandwich?”

“Dorian has left us also, but I will be glad to fix you something, ma'am.”

She frowned but nodded.

As she entered the room, she smelled polishing oil. Louise had indeed been preparing for her arrival, Rosie's winter clothes bagged in the closet, her sheets freshly laundered on her bed. She pulled the velvet curtains to trap the cool air, what remained of it for the day, and lay down on her bed.

“You're no longer a box-office star
.”

She closed her eyes. Yes, she was. The public simply needed a nudge, a reminder. Maybe she just needed to be seen out with someone of merit. Someone like Tagg Channing.

She'd call him, arrange a night out at the Coconut Grove. She angled her arm over her eyes. But first, she'd simply rest. Wait for Sammy and Irene.

Figure out how everything had gone so horribly wrong.

She awoke to darkness, hungry and sweaty, the house quiet. Rising, she changed out of her travel clothes and donned a silk gown, a pair of slippers. Then she tiptoed through the shadowed, dark house, out to the patio.

The blades of grass slid between her toes, cool and sharp. The moon hung in the sky like a spotlight, bold and white against the curtain of darkness. She sank down in the grass, watching the stars, counting each one until she watched one unhinge from the sky and plummet to earth.

She reached out her hand, as if to catch it, but it flickered out and died, leaving only a void where it had once dazzled the heavens.

It was only after she'd grown cold in the grass and headed inside to the luxury of her bedroom that she realized she'd forgotten to wish.

But perhaps her wishes were all used up.

She took her breakfast in the kitchen with Louise, who fixed her an omelet and fresh strawberries. She'd bathed, wiped her face clean of makeup, and called the studio, leaving messages for Rooney and Fletcher.

Certainly they had scripts she could read.

She had to do something.

Louise handed her a copy of the
Examiner
. “Irene's new beau likes to read it sometimes, so we have a subscription.”

She opened the page to Louella's column, caught up on the gossip, and then turned to the studio news. “Warner Brothers has created some sort of cartoon with a pig and a duck.” First Rin-Tin-Tin, and now moving comics. Jack Junior sounded desperate.

She closed the paper. Took a sip of her coffee.

Heard the front door open. And then, with the sound of his voice, she thought she just might survive. “Rosie?”

“Sammy!”

He came around the corner of the hallway and slammed into her, nearly full speed, his hands around her waist.

She hugged him close, inhaling the scent of him. Nine years old. How could her boy be already nine? He wore sun on his nose, and it had freckled his face. He grinned at her, and in his features she saw Dashielle, a scamp, but with so much charm he could win her heart every day. “I missed you.”

“I missed you!” he said. He wore a suit, his traveling clothes, and now shrugged out of his jacket, letting it hit the tile floor.

“Pick up your jacket, Sam.” Irene came in behind him. She wore a slim skirt, her hair lighter, in waves under a prim hat. She peeled off her gloves, her eyes shining. “We came as soon as we heard you were returning. I'm so sorry, but he had to take the train.”

She held Rosie close. “Thank you,” she said, kissed her on the cheek.

Rosie held her away. “For what?”

Irene grinned and lifted her hand. On her left finger, a ring sparkled in the light, a radiant diamond in a silver filigree setting. “I'm getting married.”

Rosie kept her smile, took her hand. “It's beautiful.” Oh, her voice shook. She swallowed it away. “I'm so happy for you.”

Really. Yes, of course she was.

“You know, it's all because of you.” Irene unpinned her hat, shook out her hair.

“Why?”

She laughed. “Because you're the one who sent him here.”

Sent
who?
—and then she saw him. Coming around the corner, into the house, carrying a suitcase. “Do you want this in your room, darling?”

Spenser. He froze when his gaze landed on her, and then a smile crept up his face. “Roxy.”

Oh. My. He looked good too. Tan, his sleeves rolled up over thick forearms. He still wore his hair long, although he'd cut it shorter in back, and the way he sauntered up to her, wrapped her in an embrace, that night at the tavern whooshed back to her.

She just might be blushing.

Then, wait, Irene's words clicked. “
You sent him here
.”

She released Spenser. “You're marrying Irene?”

He grinned, stepped back, and wrapped an arm around her. Nodded.

Oh. She kept her smile, because she was exactly that brilliant, that talented and managed to wish them both a healthy congratulations. She even listened as Irene told her the story of how she arrived home from the studio shortly after the New Year to find Spenser sitting on their doorstep, “Like some sort of refugee.”

“I was a refugee, lost, hungry, alone.” He pressed her hand to his mouth and another memory flashed by Rosie. She shook it away. “And then Irene fed me.”

He lost himself for a moment in Irene's smile.

Rosie took a gulp of her coffee.

“I went to Ohio to ask her father's permission to marry her,” Spenser said. “I wanted to do it right.”

“When is the wedding?”

“Labor Day weekend.” Irene touched Rosie's arm. “I know it's soon, but Spenser just landed a role in
Wuthering Heights
. He'll be on location at the ranch for filming, and we were going to go with him.” She slid her hand into his, and he entwined their fingers.

She could see their lives spooling out to a perfect happy ending in the way Spenser's eyes shone.

If anyone deserved a fresh start, it was Spenser.

And Sammy deserved a father. Maybe even a brother or sister someday.

“You can live here as long as you need to,” she said quietly. Refrained from adding
please
.

“Oh no. We already have our eye on a little bungalow in Beverly Hills.”

Of course they did. Rosie finished her coffee, felt her eyes burning. Oh, she wanted to be happy for Irene, for them both. But despite her happiness, she couldn't breathe.

Couldn't think.

“Excuse me, I think I'll check on Sammy. I hate him being out by the pool by himself,” Rosie said.

“He knows how to swim, Rosie. He swims nearly every day with Spenser.”

Of course he did. She patted Spenser on the arm as she passed by. “Thank you.”

The sunlight helped. She blinked away the moisture in her eyes and slipped on her sunglasses.

Behind her, she heard Spenser's steps. Drew in a breath.

“Why aren't you in Europe, with Rolfe?”

She closed her eyes, pressed on her stomach. “He—we finished shooting.”

“But you were going to stay, help him promote—”

“He was done with me. He didn't need me anymore.”

“What are you talking about? You're essential to everything. He can't possibly keep sneaking Jews out of Europe without you there.”

She stilled. Looked at him. “What are you talking about?”

Spenser held her gaze, a muscle pulling in his jaw. “He didn't tell you.” He rubbed his hand across his forehead, shook his head. “Oh no.”

“Spenser.”

“I thought you knew.” He stepped out into the grass. “Rolfe promised me he'd tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

He sank down on the end of her chaise lounge. “The movie—it's a ploy to move Jews across the borders. First, German Jews out of Germany, and then those in Austria.”

“I don't understand.” She sat next to him.

“Remember when I told you about the Nuremberg Laws? It was illegal to employ Jews? It's getting worse, Rosie. And it's not just Germany rejecting the Jews. Just three weeks ago, France hosted the Evian Conference on Refugees. They decided that no country in Europe would take the Jews fleeing from German persecution. Even this country will only take 30,000 refugees.”

“You mean, the world is turning their backs on the Jews?”

He drew in a breath. Nodded. “Rolfe's had a plan since the early days, in 1935, when his wife died.”

“What did she have to do with this?”

He ran a hand across his face. “Her fiancé was German, and Jewish, and when it was discovered they were engaged, a gang of Hitler youth beat him to death. She barely escaped. When Bette returned to Belgium, Rolfe found out through Sophie, her cousin, and he married her.”

She stilled. “No wonder Rolfe married her. He understood how it felt to lose someone to the hands of thugs.”

He nodded slowly. “Is he in danger?”

“He's a noble, so he's probably not suspected. Yet. But yes, if he gets caught helping the Jews escape… And if he sent you home, then something must have gone wrong. His plan was to tour Europe and use your fame to attract attention, distract the German officials from the underground Jewish activities.”

She folded her hands. “I walked in on him talking on the phone, in German. He seemed…well, very friendly with his Nazi friends.”

“A game. A ruse. And I know that one of them, at least, is helping him.”

“He was so angry with me, Spenser. He told me he didn't need me anymore. That my role was done.”

Spenser covered his hand with hers. “I don't know why he sent you home. I suspect he feared for your life, so he turned on you, made you believe he didn't want you.” He squeezed her hand. “Clearly, he played his role as brilliantly as you did.”

“Are you telling me that he made me leave so I wouldn't have to watch him get caught? Be executed?”

“I'm telling you I think he feared that exact thing—and more. I think he sent you home to save your life.”

“But he was using me.” She slipped her hands away, got up. “He had no right to involve me in a plan like that without telling me.”

“Rosie. You think he was using you, but he was giving you the opportunity to actually do something significant with your life.” He got to his feet. “It's not until you lose everything that you realize what really matters. What you really have.”

“And what do I have now, Spenser?” She turned away from him. “Please. Rolfe took the last bit of my life from me. If I hadn't left, I'd still have a career, a studio.” Irene and Sammy. She didn't want to say it, but even Spenser's arrival could be blamed on Rolfe.

“You have hope, Rosie. That's what keeps you going. That immortal hope deep inside you.”

His words stopped her. Turned her.

She'd seen this before, this expression. There, in the barn, as he lay dying in her arms. “I've never met anyone like you, Rosie. Talented, beautiful, passionate. You put everything you have into your scenes—and your life. I've never seen anyone who refuses to stay down like you.”

“You don't know me that well.”

“Don't I? I remember what it feels like to hold you in my arms. Yes, we were acting but I knew, even then, that you were someone who wouldn't give up. That's why Rolfe wrote the story for you, why you became Bridget. Because he knew who you were, what you had. He believed in you.”

“Then he sent me away.”

“Because he loves you.”

His words stilled her. “Rolfe doesn't love me.”

Spenser held up his hands, as if in surrender. “How blind are you? Everyone knew it. You could see it in his eyes. I even told you that.”

“He abandoned me time and again on the set. Only after he got to France did he decide to stick around, watch my scenes.”

“And who else was watching your scenes, Rosie? Anyone who could. Which left him able to track down and help the people hiding in the shadows. He hid them in plain sight as extras then sent them on to Israel and America armed with visas and new papers. Your acting brilliance, your willingness to trust him saved lives.”

“I did it to save my career.”

He got up, found her gaze. “My mother used to say, one man's candle is light for many. You were just trying to keep your candle lit. But you lit the way for many. It reminds me of what my rabbi would say about God. He does not enjoy your suffering, but He does use it for your salvation and even, sometimes, your joy.”